


On Top of an Upside-Down World

by remy (iamremy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Art Included Inside, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), F/F, Gen, Humor, Hurt Sam Winchester, Leader Dean Winchester, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Acquires a Dog, Young Winchesters (Supernatural), it's the least he deserves honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26147812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: Five years after the end of the world, Sam and Dean find each other again. And that's when all the trouble begins.
Relationships: Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 154
Kudos: 138





	1. Still Here

**Author's Note:**

> yeah yeah, fresh idea, i know. nat (fuckntoast) and i were talking about _the last of us_ , and then the conversation somehow became about sam and dean in the non-croatoan zombie apocalyse, and before i knew it, i'd written an entire fic in like. ten days. i'm not kidding when i say my hand was cramped as all hell lmao
> 
> so yeah. credit for the idea goes to nat aka fuckntoast (ao3)/honeycube02 (tumblr). beta was done by sanjy aka spnxbookworm (both on ao3 and tumblr) and i cannot thank her enough, as always, for her editing and comments.
> 
> also, i realize that this may hit a bit too close to home, what with the current state of the world and all, but to me personally, writing it was cathartic. i understand that may not be the case for everyone. so if reading about global pandemics, limited resources etc. might be upsetting to you, please take care. 
> 
> i've got the entire story written out, as i've said - i'll be uploading a new chapter every second or third day. there are ten chapters in total. i hope you all enjoy! x
> 
> title is from the book _echoes of blood_ by halo scot:  
> "it’s the apocalypse, but we’re still here, huddled on top of an upside-down world, waiting for the end, not realizing we’re in the epilogue.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds Sam.

_“Dean!”_

_“Sammy, hang on to me, okay?”_

_He can’t remember the last time he’s seen his little brother look this scared. Sam’s all of seventeen, still too damn skinny for his own good, and his eyes are wide as he grabs hold of Dean’s sleeve. Around them, the crowd continues moving, bodies packed so tightly that there’s barely space to breathe. He can hear chopper blades ahead of them._

_Just a few more yards, and they’ll be safe._

_Don’t let go, all right?” he yells, trying to be heard over the din._

_Sam nods, face white but resolute._

_A baby cries; the sound bores into Dean’s skull. He’s still half-hungover, and regrets it with every fiber of his being. If he’d known that the chopper would be coming today, he wouldn’t have touched one drop of Caleb’s shitty moonshine. Above him the sun is dull in the sky, partly hidden by clouds, so that’s a blessing at least._

_Someone pushes into Sam from behind, knocking him into Dean. “Watch it!” Dean shouts, but his voice is lost under megaphones coming to life._

**_ATTENTION! ATTENTION! ALL AIRCRAFT WILL TAKE OFF WITHIN FIVE MINUTES. YOU ARE ADVISED TO KEEP BACK TO AVOID HARM TO YOURSELF._ ** ****

_“Sammy, come on!” Dean says, reaching for Sam’s hand. “Now’s our chance-”_

_They’re just a few steps away from the barrier. Just a little bit more effort, and then they’ll be inside the border set up by the military, safe as they’re bundled off to the helicopters lying in wait._

_“Dean!” Sam yells as someone tries to come between them. “Stop it!” he tries, but the person pays no mind, appearing half-crazed already._

_Dean wastes no time; raising his free hand, he grabs the back of the woman’s shirt and hauls her away bodily before grabbing at Sam and dragging him closer. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Not like anyone else can hear it, anyway._

**_ATTENTION! TWO MORE MINUTES. IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO BOARD AN AIRCRAFT TODAY, DO NOT PANIC. MORE WILL ARRIVE TOMORROW_ ** **_._ **

_“They’re lying!”_ _roars someone, somewhere to Dean’s left. “They’re lying, these are the last of the planes-”_

_Whoever it is - Dean can’t see them thanks to the thickness of the crowd - is loud enough to be heard by everyone within a ten-meter radius. Immediately the frenzy increases tenfold; people push and pull and jostle with even more urgency, not caring who they’re knocking into._

_The baby’s cries get louder. Sam’s free hand grabs at the front of Dean’s shirt, eyes even wider than they’d been._

_“Almost there!” Dean shouts to him, trying to smile._

_Sam nods, lips pressed together._

_A second later, Dean feels a tug on his shirt, and sees someone literally grab Sam around the waist, trying to lift him out of the way. Dean sees red; blood surging in his ears, he swings with his free hand, fist connecting with the man’s face. “STAY BACK!” he roars, as loud as he can. “NO ONE TOUCH HIM!”_

_They’re almost at the barrier. It’s within arm’s reach, and all Dean has to do is grab Sam and move-_

_Sam’s hand is pulled harshly from his. Dean whirls around, blindly reaching out for Sam, but his fingers meet thin air. The man from earlier has his arms around Sam again, pulling him back into the crowd, unmindful of the blood flowing down his face._

_“DEAN!” Sam yells, voice high from fear. He’s reaching out, kicking and thrashing against the guy, one hand still tangled in Dean’s shirt._

_“Let my wife go!” the man shouts. “She’s pregnant-” He nods to the woman behind him, who looks like she’s going to go into labor literally any moment now._

_Dean couldn’t care less. “LET GO OF HIM!” he shouts back._

**_ATTENTION, YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE LEFT. KEEP BACK FROM THE BARRIERS._ **

_“I’m sorry!” the man yells, and he looks it too, but Dean doesn’t give a shit._

_“NO!” he roars, as the man grunts in effort and pulls Sam back further from Dean._

_Sam’s hand in Dean’s shirt is ripped loose. For a couple of seconds, he grapples for purchase, but his fingers close around Dean’s amulet instead of his shirt. There’s a tug around his neck and then it’s ripped away, and Dean has no choice but to watch as Sam is torn from him._

_“DEAN!” his little brother’s shouting, reaching out for him with both hands, the amulet swinging wildly from his fingers. “DEAN, WAIT-”_

_“SAM, JUST HANG ON-”_

**_THE BARRIER IS BEING CLOSED NOW. PLEASE STEP BACK FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY. ANYONE DISOBEYING SAFETY PROTOCOLS WILL BE RESTRAINED._ **

_“Sir, please step inside,” comes a cool, crisp voice, and Dean sees a man in camo just out of the corner of his eye._

_“No, I’ve got to get my brother-” His voice is hoarse from the shouting and fear._

_“Sir, I will not ask again,” the soldier warns._

_The bleeding man’s pregnant wife slips past Dean, sparing him a wary glance before putting as much distance as she can between them. Dean pays her no mind, eyes trying to pick Sam out in the crowd. He’s so far away already, being carried by the retreating, panicking crowd, and he’s still screaming for Dean._

_“TOMORROW!” Dean shouts, so loud it feels his throat might tear. “SAMMY, BE HERE TOMORROW!”_

_“DEAN, WAIT, PLEASE-”_

_“Sir,” begins the soldier, and then stops talking abruptly when Dean shoves him in an attempt to dive back into the crowd. He takes his hand off his weapon and grabs Dean’s upper arm, hauling him back behind the barrier._

_Dean struggles harder, almost getting out of the soldier’s grip. “NO- let me go, it’s my brother, my little brother-”_

_“DEAN!” Sam’s shouts are coming from further and further away, his pale, tearful face so far that Dean can barely see him anymore. “DEAN!”_

_“SAM, WAIT-” but in the next second, he has the wind knocked out of him when the soldier jabs the butt of his gun hard into Dean’s belly._

_“Sir, stay back,” he says sharply. “Or I will not hesitate to shoot.” He looks every bit like he means it._

_God, he can’t, he can’t, not without Sam-_

_“TOMORROW!” he yells again, more desperate this time. “SAMMY! TOMORROW!’ It’s all he can do._

_He keeps his eyes on Sam even as he’s dragged off towards the waiting helicopter, until his little brother is lost to the crowd._

_Tomorrow’s all he’s got._

* * *

Dean wakes with a jolt, Sam’s screams still echoing in his mind. Somehow, the memory is even worse than nightmares. At this rate, he wouldn’t mind seeing walkers in his dreams every night; it’s got to be better than the phantom sensation of Sam’s hand being torn out of his. This keeps up and he’s gonna have to talk to Doc, see about sleeping pills.

He doesn’t want to do that. Pills would dull his senses, leave him vulnerable in his sleep. He trusts everyone in his camp implicitly — of course he does, they’re _his_ people, whom he rescued and trained and gave a home — but he doesn’t think he trusts them enough to watch his back. He doesn’t trust _anyone_ enough to watch his back, not anymore.

There was John, before he succumbed to the first wave of the disease.

And there was Bobby, before he got his guts ripped clean out by walkers, on a mission Dean had sent him on. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for that one.

Still, replaying that memory would be better than the one currently playing behind his eyelids. Five years, and he still remembers it crystal-clear.

Sighing, he makes himself sit up. It’s still dark out when he steps outside his makeshift home. He relieves himself by the side of the wooden house he’s built with his own hands, and then stumbles over to the water basin he keeps in the corner of his room. Splashes lukewarm, stale water over his face, ignores how much he hates the taste when some of it inevitably goes into his mouth, and then sits back to count his ammo, see how much he can spare to hunt down breakfast today.

There’s still time for that, though. Nothing’s gonna be out until daybreak, and a look at the sky tells Dean there’s maybe forty-five minutes till then. For now, he counts his ammo, and he makes sure his guns are clean, and his knives are sharp, and that he’s as prepared as he can be.

Half an hour to daybreak. Dean sits back on his bedding, trying not to think about his brother. Of course, that just makes his brain focus harder on Sam.

He’d be twenty-two now, thinks Dean. He’d still been growing when they’d been separated, had almost been Dean’s height. Dean’s sure that by now, he’s probably taller. Kid had been growing like a weed, all gangly arms and slender body and coltish legs, so unaware of the space he was beginning to take up. He’d teased Sam endlessly, every time his brother had crashed into a doorway or stumbled over something because he just wasn’t used to being this tall, after years of being so tiny it had worried John.

The vitamin supplements worked, thinks Dean wryly. Or maybe it was just genetics.

Whoever it was that day in the crowd, he’d been right. That had been the last of the planes. Dean doesn’t know how he knew, or why there were no more planes, but there it was just the same — he’d waited and waited and waited, and there had been no sign of Sam. It took six weeks before he finally realized Sam wasn’t coming. That no one was coming, and he’d been lied to.

(The pregnant woman had given birth on the plane. She’d asked Dean for his brother’s name, had said, “I’d like to name my son after the brave young man who sacrificed his place for me.” Dean had told her, bitterly, that he wished her husband was dead and that the last thing he wanted was his little brother’s name in her mouth. He doesn’t regret it. Not even a little bit.)

Six weeks after that, the government fell apart. The President was rushed to whatever bunker they had in whatever place for exactly this sort of situation. He’d barely made it before collapsing into a coughing fit, spraying blood over the Vice President and three Secret Service members. And then he died, within minutes.

The Vice President followed in a week. The three Secret Service members, too. Dean heard all of this from one of the soldiers he’d befriended, a young man with a proclivity for gossip and an uncanny ability to needle information out of people. After that, it was widespread panic.

Dean watched, ensconced in a repurposed air base, as the world went to hell around him.

A second wave of illness. Then a third. No cure in sight. No vaccine that worked. A rapid decline in the world’s population.

No Sam anywhere.

Then the head of the air base fell ill. Soldiers followed quickly. Nine months after Dean had first arrived, around seventy percent of the population of the air base was wiped out.

No more security left; it was blindingly easy to slip out with a few guns and knives, armed to the teeth. A map, too, and enough rations to last Dean a month. He had to find Sam.

It took him a week to go from Colorado, where he’d been, to Lawrence, Kansas, where he’d been separated from Sam. To this day he wishes he could forget what he’d seen there - nothing but death and widespread destruction, everything he recognized from his old life torn to pieces. Bodies littering the streets. He’d even spotted the pregnant woman’s husband, as dead as Dean had wished him every day for months.

He still felt no regret.

What he hadn’t found was Sam. There was no sign of his little brother, and Dean figured that Sam must have escaped the carnage somehow. It only took him a minute further to determine where Sam would have gone, and another to consult his map and figure out a route.

It took Dean two weeks to reach Sioux Falls, South Dakota. If Sam wasn’t in Lawrence, then Bobby’s home was the only other place he would have gone. After John, they had no one else in the world, and it made sense that Sam would seek refuge with the man who’d been like another father to them.

He’d encountered people on the way; half-crazed, manic shadows of their old selves, begging for help, for food and water. And when that failed to get results, attacking. It was the first time in his life that Dean had shot someone, but he’d had no choice - the other option was getting bitten, or bled on, being forced to become exactly like them.

He’d thrown up, and hadn’t slept for three days until he’d passed out, exhausted, hidden under a truck by the side of the road somewhere on the South Dakota-Nebraska border. He was almost out of food at this point, and had just two days’ worth of water left, and all he could do was hope and pray that he’d find Sam at Bobby’s.

Sioux Falls, somehow, wasn’t as bad as Lawrence had been. The town looked significantly more deserted than the last time he’d been there, but there were still healthy people. Haunted, but alive, and sane. He’d made his way, bone-tired and weary, to the salvage yard, praying to every god he could think of. It was the first time in his life he’d even acknowledged the existence of a cosmic entity. He’d never been like Sammy, with all his faith and his belief.

No point, anyway. There was no one looking out for Dean; Bobby’s home was deserted, Rumsfeld’s body rotting next to Bobby’s abandoned Chevelle, and no sign of Sam. Nothing to indicate he might’ve ever been here.

Jody Mills, Dean had thought, half-delirious from the heat and hunger and fear. She’d know — something. Anything.

 _Bobby’s gone,_ she’d told him when he’d stumbled into her home, an hour later. _He’s been gone a while_.

 _Sam?_ Dean had rasped, speaking for the first time since he’d left the air base.

 _Never here,_ Jody had replied. _Not as far as I know_.

Which was as good as it got, because Jody knew everything going on in her town. She’d offered Dean her shower, a hot meal, and her guest room. He’d accepted the first two, vehemently denied the third, and let her arm him with Tupperware boxes and bags of non-perishables before he left once more.

And then he wandered. He walked till he couldn’t any more, until he collapsed in a corner of an abandoned farmhouse, and slept for two days. Had a fever too, if he recalls correctly, and still finds it within himself to be dully surprised he’d survived that. He’d made it, somehow, and then got up and resumed walking as if he’d never been interrupted.

He learned to scavenge for food. He avoided people — they were trouble, they always were. When the food ran out, he learned to hunt. He learned basic first aid from a torn, bloodstained textbook he’d found in one of the houses he’d squatted in, and he raided clinics and medical supply stores as often as he could for bandages, suture kits, painkillers, and antibiotics.

And he killed people. So many he lost count. He stopped throwing up, stopped having nightmares about it. No point.

His twenty-third birthday came and went so quietly he didn’t even know it. He wore through six pairs of shoes, ten pairs of jeans. Stole replacements. Ate a meal a day and rationed water like he might never get more again, which was extremely likely given the circumstances. Thought of Sam every day, hoped to find him in every town he stepped into.

A year later he realized he was beginning to forget what Sam sounded like. He spent the entire night scouring his brain for memories of his little brother, trying to remember what his voice was like, the way his laugh sounded, God, maybe even how he’d cried. All of it was in vain; all he could recall was Sam’s screaming the day they’d been separated. That remained crystal-clear in his mind.

For the first time since this entire nightmare had begun, he cried himself to sleep.

The next day, he’d met Ellen and Jo Harvelle. A mother-daughter pair who’d managed to escape the madness so far, they’d told him they were travelling to this camp they’d heard of, somewhere in Washington. _You’re welcome to join us_ , Ellen had told him, barely three seconds after he’d told her his story. He wasn’t the sharing kind, especially not with strangers, but something about her reminded him of his mother, and Jo was chirpy and bright-eyed and looked at Dean like the sun shone out of his ass, so painfully similar to how Sam had always looked at him.

He joined them.

They became a rag-tag group of three, and somehow managed to pick up more stragglers on the way to Washington. After a year of being on his own, it took Dean time to adjust to being with people again, sharing his things and actually talking out loud. Ellen was patient throughout it all, calmly getting him out of fights he inadvertently started — and Jo helped too, talking his ear off whenever she got the chance and not seeming to care that he rarely ever responded.

To his surprise, they’d found Bobby in Montana. The old man looked the same as he ever had, just a little bit rougher around the edges, beard a bit messier. He’d hugged Dean when he’d seen him, smiled wide and patted his shoulder, and asked, _Where’s your daddy? And Sam?_

 _Gone_ , Dean had said. He hadn’t known how else to sum it up.

_Gone? The hell you mean, gone?_

_I mean gone, Bobby. Dad died from the illness. I lost Sam in Lawrence._ He’d explained the incident at the barriers as best he could.

Bobby had hugged him again. _Least we still got each other_ , he’d said, and it was a small comfort, better than nothing but not even close to having Sam there.

And they’d gone on.

True to form, they’d found nothing in Washington, but by that time they’d picked up enough people to be able to form their own little camp. The purpose of Dean’s life became survival, though he had no idea what he was living for. Bobby, maybe. Couldn’t leave the old man alone, not after everything he’d suffered, too.

 _Rumsfeld got bit_ , Bobby had told him, one night. _Hadta put my dog down, Dean_ _. My good boy. Been with me a decade. Couldn’t bear to stay after that. Thought I’d come find y’all in Lawrence, but that was a shitshow_. There had been a pensive pause. Then, _guess me’n you are all that’s left, huh_.

Three years in, and Bobby was de facto head of the camp. Ellen died of an infected cut that refused to respond to any antibiotics. Jo stopped talking as much, and then eventually stopped completely except when absolutely necessary. She stole Dean’s gun and trained till she could hit a bullseye from even further than Bobby could, though he blamed that on his age.

Dean had somehow become Bobby’s right hand man, and Jo right after him. They organized scavenging missions, and rescues when one of their own got hurt or lost. They trained in groups so that they could defend themselves against the sick — walkers, as someone from camp decided to name them. Slowly but surely, Dean’s life fell into routine again.

Then Bobby died on a rescue, and everything came down to Dean. From right hand man to leader, and he wasn’t even twenty-five yet. He’d shut down completely after Bobby died, refused to talk any more than he needed to, not even to Jo. Which suited her just fine, considering she wasn’t the garrulous type either, not anymore.

Still routine, just a bit different.

He thought of Sam every day. No longer able to remember how he sounded at all, except for the screaming. He’d woken up one morning to realize he couldn’t remember Sam’s face clearly either, and it had been ten minutes of panicking before he thought to check his wallet. It was pointless now, and he’d been holding on to it out of pure sentiment, the last birthday gift he’d received from John. He hadn’t had any reason to take it out from the bottom of his duffle bag ever since society had collapsed and money had become redundant.

Folded into the corner was a picture of Sam and Dean, taken outside their home. All he’d had left of his little brother. He’d stared at Sam’s face till his eyes had watered — from strain or grief, he wasn’t sure — until he’d memorized every feature of Sam’s face. The summer-gold skin, floppy brown hair, pointy nose and dimples, and those eyes whose color he could never pinpoint. Even the little mole just by his nose.

Sam would’ve been nineteen.

* * *

It’s daybreak; Dean rises up from his bed, leaving his memories behind, and grabs his rifle on his way out. The camp is coming awake, slowly but surely, people beginning to emerge from their dwellings. He spots Jo washing her face and nods to her, waiting for her to be done so that she can join him.

“Breakfast?” she asks when she sees his rifle.

He nods. “I’m thinkin’ rabbit.”

She nods back. They don’t speak further.

The hunt is easy. He’s been at it long enough to know just what to do. Between him and Jo and the other five hunters he’s assigned to the task, they manage to catch enough for the camp of roughly sixty people. He hands off their haul to Mrs. Watson on the way, and she begins skinning rabbits with frightening efficiency.

Back to his place. He washes the blood off, discards his stained jacket. Cleans his gun, counts his ammo.

It’s routine. It’s all he’s got.

Breakfast is interrupted by the sound of shouting from the east border of the camp. A kid no older than fifteen runs up to Dean in the middle of his meal, out of breath as he gasps out “They’re askin’ for you over by the firewood heap!”

“Can it wait?” He’s hungry.

The kid shakes his head. “There’s someone,” he tells Dean, still struggling to catch his breath. “Not - not a walker,” he adds.

Standing, Dean sighs. “You eat my meal I’ll skin you,” he warns Jo, who scoffs at him. He’s pretty sure she flips him off as he walks away, but he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of turning and checking.

There’s a commotion just behind the firewood pile by the east border when Dean gets there. Two of his patrolmen are holding someone by the arms, roughly trying to speak to whoever it is. Dean hears Jacob ask “Who are you?” as he gets nearer, and frowns when he sees Jacob shake the newcomer roughly.

“Stop,” he snaps when he gets close enough to be in earshot of them. Whoever the newcomer is — and from here all Dean can see for sure is that it’s a male — he’s painfully thin, practically gaunt, and stumbles when Jacob shakes him. His face is obscured in a layer of dirt and grime and what looks like blood, too, but Dean can tell enough to put his age somewhere round early twenties, late teens at the youngest.

“Dude, come on,” he says to Jacob when he’s ten feet away.

At his voice, the newcomer’s head snaps up. He goes lax in between Jacob and Rob, gaze searching wildly until it fixes on Dean. And yeah, he’s covered in so much dirt his skin barely shows, and he’s so thin he looks breakable. Tall, though, that much Dean can tell, and malnourished, starved even, torn and dirty clothes hanging off him, long matted hair down to his shoulders. He barely even looks human, closer in appearance to the corpses that Dean sees on the daily.

But Dean would know those eyes anywhere.

He speeds up, practically running, and gets there just in time for the newcomer to stagger forward and then collapse. Dean manages to catch him around the chest before he can hit the ground, and then he’s holding him up, hands grasping at his shirt, eyes searching—

It can’t be. It _can’t_ be.

Dean has spent three years searching, and two convincing himself that Sam’s probably dead and better off for it. And yet — and yet here he is, his little brother, staring up at him from under dirty, overlong bangs, mouth working as he tries to speak.

Dean waits, still unable to believe it. He’s hallucinating, that’s what this is. The lack of sleep is finally catching up to him, and now he’s seeing Sam everywhere because his brain won’t let go and just accept his little brother’s gone—

“Dean,” rasps out the newcomer, and his mouth twists into a smile. “ _Dean_.”

Fuck. Fuck, it’s him—

“Sammy?” Dean whispers.

“Dude, what’s going on?” asks Rob loudly. “You know him?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snarls, not taking his eyes off Sam. “Sammy?” he tries again.

A smile. Then again, “Dean.” A pause. “F-found you.”

Without even thinking about it Dean wraps his arms tight around him, pulling him in close till their chests are pressed flushed together. Sam is completely still in his arms for a second, but then he grabs the back of Dean’s shirt, and Dean remembers that grip, remembers the way Sam would hold on to him when he’d been scared or upset. “Sam,” he says. “Sam, is it you, is it really you?”

“Found you,” rasps Sam again, and it’s hoarse, broken, but it’s Sam’s _voice_. _Sam’s voice_.

“Sammy,” Dean manages to say before his voice cracks and his knees buckle. Somehow he manages to lower himself to the ground without falling, taking care to keep Sam within his arms. Sam’s holding on to him with all the strength in him, which isn’t much, and he’s pushing his face into the space between Dean’s jaw and shoulder, and he keeps saying “found you, found you” over and over again, voice so rough it makes Dean ache just to hear it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, fully aware he’s crying. “Yeah, you found me, you found me, fuck, _Sammy_ —”

He pulls back, frames Sam’s face with his hands just to get a better look at him. Sam’s lips are so dry they’re cracked open, bleeding, and his eyes look wider than usual in his gaunt face, glazed over from dehydration and exhaustion. His cheekbones are sharp under Dean's thumb, tear tracks washing some of the dirt away from his face — and it’s him, it’s undeniably him, and Dean crashes his mouth into Sam’s forehead, tasting blood and dirt and not giving a shit.

“Sam,” he says, voice as hoarse as his brother’s. “Sammy, kid, little brother, fuck, it’s you, it’s you—” He kisses Sam’s forehead again, and then the bridge of his nose, and his cheek, and then he pulls him in again, holding him like he’s afraid that Sam might be ripped from him again. And all the while he’s only vaguely aware of Jacob and Rob watching with their mouths open, the rest of the camp gathering too, all of them witnessing their chief break down and show more emotion than they’ve ever seen from him.

“Found you,” Sam whispers, death grip on Dean’s shirt never easing even for a second. Something is digging into Dean’s chest, and it takes him a moment to recognize his own amulet, dangling from a worn and cracked leather cord around Sam’s neck. He lets out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob even to his own ears, and presses his forehead to Sam’s, closing his eyes and letting himself breathe for the first time in half a decade.

“Yeah,” he says into the space between them, as tears slip unhampered down his cheeks. “You found me.”


	2. With the Last Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's chapter 2! i was blown away by the response to the first one, i honestly cannot thank you all enough <3
> 
> title is from a quote by napz cherub pellazo:  
> “some day, with the last exhaustion, peace will come. it won't be the end of all things to come.”

_“TOMORROW! SAMMY, TOMORROW!”_

Sam jolts awake, heart racing. He doesn’t know if it’s from the dream, or from something else. Around him, the forest is quiet; there is no sound except for the occasional cricket or owl.

He sits up. The moon is high in the sky, round and bright, and there are stars sprinkled around it, blinking down. He can count more constellations now than he could before, in his old life. He and Dean used to go for drives on clear nights, park Dad’s Impala somewhere and sit on the hood, looking up at the stars. Dean had been the one to teach Sam all the constellations he knew, and then Sam, interest piqued, had gone on to study even more.

His heart aches a little at the memory of his brother. He can only remember Dean in flashes now — the green of his eyes, the scars across his knuckles from the fights he picked as a teenager, John’s leather jacket he wore around with pride. He doesn’t remember what Dean sounded like, no matter how hard he tries. Some days, he’s afraid he’s going to wake up and no longer remember Dean’s face. He doesn’t have a picture or anything else to refresh his memory with, nothing but the amulet he’d gifted Dean.

He thinks about it everyday, the feeling of grabbing on to it just before the cord snapped from around Dean’s neck. He thinks about Dean’s promise, of tomorrow, and of that man in the crowd who’d insisted it wouldn’t come. He’d been right, somehow. It hadn’t mattered; Sam had found his body, after. He looked like he’d been trampled by the frenzied crowd.

He’d also found the body of the man who’d pulled him from Dean. He’d stared at him and tried very hard to hate him, and found himself unable to, in the end. The guy had just been looking out for his wife. He just wanted her to be safe. Sam can’t really fault him for that, even though that means he ended up separated from Dean.

He’d tried for a few days, coming back to the barrier around the same time. No planes. Maybe there was some kind of delay, some issue that prevented them from coming. Sam had hoped it was only going to be temporary.

Then he’d turned on the TV in his abandoned living room, and found out the President was dead. Then the Vice President, and three Secret Service agents. And then the entire government, and Sam understood that no one was coming.

If he was going to find Dean again, he’d have to do it himself.

So, Sam scoured their home top to bottom, found as many non-perishables as he could, John’s old hunting rifle, and the first aid kit they kept in the upstairs bathroom. He changed the cord on Dean’s amulet and slipped it around his own neck for safekeeping, and he took the Swiss Army knife John had gotten him on his last birthday. Then he found a map, and he took off.

First, Bobby’s. Bobby would know what to do.

There were still enough people around that Sam was able to hitch a ride for the first few hours on the journey to South Dakota. He’d traveled with a family for some time, and they’d dropped him off a few hours from the Nebraska-Kansas border. He’d walked for some time and then been picked up by a kindly-looking trucker.

That had been a shitshow. Barely half an hour in, the balding old man in severe need of deodorant had reached out and put his hand on Sam’s knee. Sam had squirmed away, uncomfortable and hoping he got the hint. He did not; he tried again within a few minutes; this time higher up on Sam’s thigh. Dean and John had trained Sam enough for exactly this sort of situation — he’d moved, as fast as he could, grabbed the guy’s hand and twisted, bending his fingers backwards until he’d howled in pain. Sam had ended up back on the side of the road in the middle of the night, heart racing and hand aching from the effort he’d put in.

But safe. Or so he’d thought, picking his way through the underbrush by the side of the road, trying to stay away from the highway. The occasional car raced past, but none stopped for him, and Sam resigned himself to going the rest of the way by foot. He checked the map by flashlight and groaned to himself — he wasn’t even in Nebraska yet.

For three nights he’d been able to walk, rationing his food and water, hoping hope against hope for a car to pass by. The number dwindled though, until eventually the highway was empty, and Sam began coming across more and more abandoned vehicles in the middle of the road, or on the hard shoulder. Some of them still had bodies in them, bloated and distended from the heat, surrounded by flies. The ones which were empty were fair game, though, and Sam raided them for anything useful he could find.

He’d ended up with a few packets of jerky, some M&M’s (peanut — Dean’s favorite kind, and he’d tried so hard not to think of his brother), and a tire iron. It was heavy and unwieldy but it made him feel safer, because eventually John’s gun was going to run out of ammo and Sam needed something when that happened.

He’d been just halfway through Nebraska when he’d come across another person, for the first time since the pervy trucker. Or as close to a person as possible — Sam didn’t let his guard down, kept a safe distance, and when he realized that the person was in fact infected and ill, he thanked John’s paranoia and training and rued every day he’d complained about it.

He’d hid behind a car and watched as they lumbered around, head bowed and movements almost drunk. Every now and then it would cough. Sam tried to see if it was male or a female, but between the gaunt figure and long, matted hair, it was hard to tell. The cough was always bloody, though, and occasionally there were teeth. That had made him vomit, almost. Nothing came up, but the sound and smell alerted it to his presence, and Sam found himself facing it with nothing between them but three feet and John’s rifle.

He’d tried, he really had. He didn’t want to kill anyone, even though at this point it would have been a mercy. But that was still a _person_ , and they must’ve had a life, had a family—

It had lunged, blood spraying from its mouth, and Sam had had to jump backwards to avoid it. He had to figure this out because the other option was to let himself be infected and become… like _that_. But he couldn’t run, either, not fast enough with his aching joints and torn shoes, and the weight of all the things he was carrying.

So he’d screwed up his courage, pointed John’s rifle, whispered, “I’m sorry,” and shot.

He encountered a few more on his way to the Nebraska-South Dakota border. It got easier to shoot them after a while, but he felt bad every single time anyway. He couldn’t help but think of the people they must’ve been, before they’d become _this_ , mindless predators who could only understand the instinct to feed and to kill. Sometimes both at the same time.

But it was them or him, and he had to get to Bobby, had to find Dean.

He lost count of how many he’d had to kill by the time he stumbled into Sioux Falls. He was almost out of ammo, but more distressingly, he had no food left and barely a few more sips of water. Finding Bobby was his only hope now.

It turned out to be in vain. Bobby’s house was empty, no sign of anyone in there at all. What was somehow worse was Rumsfeld’s body in the corner, beginning to rot. There was a bite mark on his left flank and a bullet hole between his eyes, and Sam understood what must have happened. That didn’t make it any less painful to think about, though, and Sam had pressed his hand to his mouth, bitten his lip hard to prevent himself from making any sound.

He’d slept in Bobby’s guest room that night, but only because it was already dark out and no longer safe to travel. The house no longer smelled of Bobby — it smelled of dust, and food gone bad, and the rot of Rumsfeld’s body. Sam remembered all the times he’d played with the old dog over the years, and tried not to cry. He didn’t much succeed, muffling his tears into his pillow, hand pressed to his mouth. And then he was no longer crying just for Rumsfeld, but for his father, too, and for Dean, and for all the hope he’d had that had brought him to Bobby’s.

Was Bobby dead? He didn’t know. The house didn’t look like there had been a struggle. Maybe Bobby had just gotten up and left, for whatever reason. Or maybe he’d been infected, which was a horrifying thought. Sam didn’t know what he’d do if he came across Bobby as one of those ill people he might have to kill. He didn’t think he could ever survive that.

He didn’t know _what_ to think, though. Bobby would never have left Rumsfeld like this, body rotting in the yard. He’d never have left his Chevelle behind either, and yet there it was, parked outside the house.

The next morning, Sam had gotten up, not having slept a wink, and gathered up all the ammo he could find in Bobby’s house. He’d also found a couple of handguns and a hunting knife, all of them far easier to carry than a tire iron, and had armed himself with them. There was no good food in the fridge, all of it having gone moldy since a while, but there were some tins of tuna and soup and beans and other things in Bobby’s cabinets, and Sam tossed those into his bag, too. Luckily enough, he’d even managed to find a pair of his sneakers in Bobby’s guest room — he supposed he must’ve left them behind the last time they’d visited.

He’d set out again the moment the sun was high enough in the sky. He’d considered taking Bobby’s Chevelle, but there was no point to it, ultimately — it wasn’t as if he could refuel once he ran out of gas, and anyway there were too many empty cars littering the roads for anyone to be able to drive. It wasn’t safe on foot, but it was faster, and speed would have to make up for safety.

The thing was, though — Sam had no idea where to go. John had had no relatives. He vaguely remembered his father mentioning his mother’s parents and some cousins, but he had no idea what they were called or where they lived. He figured the surname Campbell wasn’t going to get him anywhere — it was too common a name to be helpful, especially when he didn’t even know what state to search for them in.

He’d spread the map on a table, closed his eyes, and put his finger down randomly. It had landed on Colorado, so that was where Sam figured he could go.

It wasn’t an easy journey — as time went on, the number of people decreased and the number of infected only rose. Sam ended up finishing all the ammo for John’s rifle in a single night, when he’d inadvertently stumbled upon a whole town of nothing but infected people. He’d barely escaped with his life, and it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten bitten or bled upon. He’d spent the night at the top of a tree, wide awake, waiting for the morning so he could come down.

It wasn’t that the infected were unable to move in the sun — they could, as far as he knew. He’d definitely encountered plenty of them in the daytime. But the sun seemed to make them uncomfortable, seemed to cause them some amount of pain… or maybe it was a vision thing, Sam thought. That was likely too. Their entire bodies were degenerating, so it made sense their eyes were too and that the sun damaged their retinas further.

There was nothing in Colorado. He’d heard talk of some air base, and he’d thought, a little too optimistically perhaps, that maybe Dean was there. But it was abandoned, nothing but corpses here and there, and Sam had turned away, blindly choosing another spot on the map.

He’d come across people in Wyoming, almost a year after being separated from Dean. It was getting harder to keep track of days and months now, but Sam was pretty sure he’d passed his eighteenth birthday. Going by the crispness to the air and the falling leaves, it was somewhere around September or October, and Sam’s stomach twisted when he thought that, if everything had gone right, he’d have been in college. He’d have been in Palo Alto, at Stanford, and Dean would have been going back for his final year at UCLA.

It had been his third week in Wyoming when he’d run across another large group of infected. His luck, which had been averaging on fine so far, turned — he ran out of ammo halfway through the fight, and lost his knife two seconds later. All that was left was one of Bobby’s pistols, and Sam had tried his best to run, but his ankle was sore from a sprain a few days prior, and he hadn’t had enough food to be able to sustain his body through this much exertion. He’d ended up being thrown to his knees when his ankle had twisted painfully, gun wrenched from his hand — and then he’d heard someone shout, and gunshots, and some more shouting.

_Help!_ he’d screamed, trying to keep hungry mouths away from him. _Help, I need help—_

More gunshots. Some of the infected were dropping, but around four or five were still going, jaws snapping at Sam and hands grabbing for him. He’d kicked two off and punched one straight in the face, but that moment of distraction had cost him — the next second he’d felt a sharp pain in his side, and had looked down to see the fourth infected clamp down on the exposed skin between his shirt and pants, just above his hipbone.

His head had spun, barely able to process another spate of gunfire. The last of the infected dropped, and Sam scrambled as far from them as he could, backwards on his hands. There was no point, though — no amount of distance was going to change the fact that there was a large bitemark in his side, bleeding sluggishly.

A group of three men and four women, all of them around John’s age, had appeared in front of him. One of them held out a hand to help him up, but then the others noticed his injury and stepped back. _He’s been bitten._

_Maybe we should kill him now._

_I don’t know, man, he’s just a kid._

_Yeah but he won’t be for much longer. Look at him. It’s only a matter of time before he turns—_

Sam had lain there, fading in and out of consciousness, listening to them argue. Whatever pathogen this was, it worked fast — he could feel heat radiate through his body from the bitemark, could feel his vision blurring and his brain slowing. His heart was going a mile a minute, pulse rattling just under his skin, and with each passing second, the pain only got worse.

_Maybe we should just leave him here. He looks like he’ll die before he’ll turn._

_You really want to take that chance?_

_Man, it’s not our problem. He just got bit. Gives him about a couple days before he turns. I say let’s leave him here and get the fuck out of town. He won’t be able to hurt us, and he can be the problem of whichever poor bastard finds him next._

There had been a pause. Then, _I don’t like it._

_Yeah, well. Tough titty._

_What else do we got, though?_

And so they’d left him there, lying in the middle of a town road, surrounded by corpses. Sam had been awake just long enough to see them pick up his guns and knife from where they’d fallen. He’d tried to call out, tell them no, those were Bobby’s, they couldn’t take them… but words weren’t forming and it was painful just to breathe, and maybe it would just be easier to give up. He wasn’t going to be himself for longer, anyway. Two days and it wouldn’t matter that he’d lost Bobby’s things. He doubted he was even going to remember who Bobby was, or even who his own father was.

Who Dean was.

_Please_ , he’d prayed to whoever was out there, listening. _Please let me die before I turn. I don’t want to hurt anyone. Please. Let me just die_. It had been the last thought he’d had before he’d finally passed out.

He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious — but when he woke, he was still in the exact same spot. It was evening, the sun just setting, everything exactly the way it had been before he’d passed out. But a look at his watch had told him it had been three days — that was the last thing he’d read on it before the digital display had winked out, the battery finally giving up.

Three days. He felt fine.

He’d lifted his shirt, looked down to see the bitemark scabbed over. His head hurt a little, and he felt dizzy, but perfectly all right other than that. His vision was fine, his temperature was normal, and he had no trouble breathing, no sign of a cough.

Somehow, he was just fine. And that meant he was immune.

He didn’t know what this meant. He hadn’t heard of anyone having immunity to the illness until now. But if there was him, then maybe there were others too. Maybe there was some way he could find out.

But how? There was no government. Every hospital he’d come across had been abandoned. There was barely anyone left to continue researching this.

He could try, though. Places like Nevada, or other air bases like the one in Colorado… there was bound to be some facility somewhere. As long as even one person remained who had some medical knowledge, Sam was sure there was research and attempts to find a cure or a vaccine.

Nevada, then. He could try Nevada. At the very least he’d find out what was really there in Area 51, he thought with a snort. Could tell Dean when he found him, whenever that was.

And he _would_ find Dean. He knew he would, still believed it. It had been well over a year, but Dean still had to be out there, and Sam would find him. He just had to keep looking, he just had to keep walking and searching and not giving up. Dean had never given up on him, and he wasn’t about to do it now. He was going to find his brother, and he didn’t care how long that took.

And so he took off, Wyoming to Nevada, well aware that at the pace he was going, traveling painstakingly slow and only by day, it was going to take him ages. But that didn’t seem to matter; he had purpose again, something to do, somewhere to be, and that kept him going, gave him hope even as his body withered and his strength faded.

He found more guns. Some knives, too. A little bit of food. A few weeks’ worth of water. The bitemark continued to heal like it was any other wound, something normal, when it was anything but. Sam kept an eye out for any symptoms, knowing that at the first sign of illness he would have no choice but to stop himself. Take a gun to his temple or a knife to his wrists, if he had to, but he wasn’t going to become one of them. He wouldn’t let himself.

It never came to that. The scab fell off to reveal a scar. For all it did, it might as well have been a dog bite or something like that. And Sam remained — not healthy, but fine. More or less unchanged.

Sam walked on.

He never got to Nevada, in the end. Somewhere in Idaho he got attacked again — what was it about him, anyway? He seemed to draw the infected, attract them to him somehow. It didn’t matter how hard he tried to remain hidden, they always managed to sniff him out.

_Maybe you just smell real nice, like a juicy steak_ , said a wry voice in his head that sounded a lot like what he remembered of his brother.

He’d fought off three infected before being rescued — only temporarily. A swarm of people in army fatigues had descended upon him, wiping out the rest of the infected, and Sam had had only a moment of relief before he’d found himself on the receiving end of about nine guns.

_What_ —

_You’ve been bitten_ , a woman, the obvious ringleader of the group, had said. _How long ago was this?_

Sam had racked his brains. _A few weeks. I’m not sure._

_And you didn’t turn?_ She’d sounded incredulous.

Sam shook his head. _No. Please, just let me go, I’m safe, I swear—_

_We can’t do that._ Now her tone was brisk, business-like. _You’re different, kid. I’ve never seen someone bitten who didn’t turn._

That had quashed all hopes of there being other people like Sam, and his stomach had sunk when he’d realized what was going to happen to him next. _No_ , he’d said, struggling to his feet and backing off, arms held out. _No, please, just let me go, I’ve gotta find my brother, I’ve gotta find Dean—_

_I’m sorry_ , she’d said, and there had been a pinpoint pain in his neck, and then he’d passed out.

He’d woken up from the tranq-induced sleep to find himself bound. It was night-time, and there were people around him — he could hear the sound of deep breathing, and the occasional snore. Nearby, there were the remains of a fire, nothing but faintly glowing embers now. Sam had looked around as discreetly as he’d could, and found a bored-looking man with a gun, patrolling and evidently keeping guard.

They seemed paramilitary, these people. Not really the scientist types. For a moment Sam had lain there and debated going with them. If he was immune, like they said he was, maybe he could help them find a cure or at least a vaccine. He could be useful, he could help end this entire nightmare.

Something was poking into his chest, painful and sharp, and it took him a moment to realize it was Dean’s amulet, glinting dully by the light of the dying fire. He’d stared at the bronze shine of it, the little face hanging from the leather cord, and he’d made up his mind in seconds.

He was going to find Dean. Maybe he could come back here and find these people after, but first he was going to find Dean. Nothing came before that. The world was fucked, anyway. It could wait some more time.

Undoing the ropes wasn’t going to be easy, though. Sam had had to quietly shift towards the fire and put his wrists right in the center of it, biting his lip to stay quiet whenever his bare skin brushed against embers. He managed to press the rope around his wrists to a piece of coal, though, and that had burned through it enough for Sam to get it off. He’d untied the rope from around his ankles, and had used it to sneak up behind the lone guard and choke him out. Not enough to kill him — Sam may have killed hundreds of infected but this was a _person_ , and Sam wasn’t going to take his life from him. He’d lowered the man to the ground, slow and careful so that he didn’t wake anyone up, and then he’d taken his gun and slipped off into the night.

He’d avoided people completely after that. No one was going to trust him the moment they saw his scar. They’d all just wait for him to turn and they wouldn’t care how much he assured them that it was probably not going to happen. Plus, there was no way of knowing who was a civilian and who wasn’t, and the last thing Sam needed was to be captured again. He didn’t know if he had the kind of luck that guaranteed a second escape, and he wasn’t about to wait and find out.

He had to find Dean. He was going to be safe with Dean.

He began traveling at night, despite the dangers. He got better at combat, at fighting off hordes of infected with nothing but knives and his hands and feet. Came close to death so many times he lost count, but knowing he was immune made him reckless. He didn’t care if they bled on him or bit him; it wouldn’t matter, and he could continue searching for his brother without worrying about it.

Years passed. He’d already forgotten the sound of Dean’s voice; now he was forgetting his own, too. John’s face was no longer clear in his mind, hadn’t been for a long time. He only vaguely remembered the smell of John’s cologne, or the way he’d hugged Sam when he’d been upset as a child. That feeling of safety and home and warmth now felt so foreign that Sam began to wonder if it had ever been real, or nothing more than a hallucination. Solitude wasn’t all it was cracked up to be — the longer he’d spent on his own, the more his past life began feeling like a pleasant dream he’d had that he could no longer remember.

The passage of time no longer made sense, either. Sam only knew how much time it’d been from the passing of the seasons, but nothing more specific than that. He counted five winters and four summers, only vaguely aware of his own age. Nineteen, then twenty, then twenty-one. Dean would be twenty-five now, provided he was still alive. He had to be, though. Sam refused to even entertain any other possibility. Dean was out there, and Sam was going to find him, no matter how long that took.

He’s twenty-two now, he thinks. Spring’s been gone a while, so May must have come and gone, too. Dean’s twenty-six, wherever he is.

It’s cold. Sam only has a thin jacket, riddled with holes. It doesn’t do much, but he wraps it tighter around himself anyway, trying to seal in whatever warmth he’s got. He’s nothing but skin and bones now, can’t remember the last time he’d eaten something solid. There’s nothing to hunt in this forest, and Sam doesn’t know enough about plants to tell what’s edible and what isn’t. He can’t take chances. He’s immune to bites, not poisonous berries.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls. Sam considers getting up and moving, and then decides that the wolf is probably too far away. He thinks about starting a fire, but doesn’t want to risk drawing any unwanted attention — from people, infected, or wild animals.

He misses being able to sleep without a knife. He misses his bed from his home in Lawrence, misses food. He misses his dad, still, after all this time, and Bobby, too. He misses their gruff exteriors and warm hugs, their shit cooking and worse bedtime stories. He even misses arguing with his father over stupid crap.

But most of all he misses Dean. That’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. It’s been five years, and Dean’s loss is still an open wound in his chest where his heart should be. He’s been all over the Midwest in these five years, even the west coast, and — nothing. No sign of his big brother.

He’s still got hope. That’s not the problem here. The issue is himself — his depleted strength, his weak, starved body. If he keeps up like this, he’ll be dead in a matter of days. A month at most, if he’s extremely lucky. Washington is his last hope; he doesn’t think he has the strength to go search the east coast if he fails here.

There are camps, he knows, places where survivors have banded together. He has no wish to find or settle in any of them. He doesn’t think he can trust anyone that much. Finding Dean is all he’s got, because if he can’t be with his brother in this nightmare of an existence, then there’s really not much point to being alive.

Well, one way or another, it won’t be a problem in a few more weeks.

Sam huddles further into his jacket, closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

* * *

He’s woken by discomfort. There’s a throbbing pain in his leg, somewhere above his knee, and Sam pushes his pants down to take a look at it. He’d gotten hurt a few days ago while fighting an infected, and he’d patched the cut up as best as he could, but now, when he removes the bandage, he’s greeted with a sickly-sweet smell. Bits of scab stick to the bandage as he peels it off with a wince, and there’s pus, too. The edges of the wound are red and inflamed, and it feels hot to the touch.

Infection. That’s what this is. He’s immune to bites, but not to ordinary infections. This was bound to happen, he thinks with a sigh as he puts the bandage back — he has no replacements. At some point, it was going to happen. He’s actually surprised it’s taken this long.

He needs antibiotics, he knows. A course of amoxclav and another of metronidazole would clear this right up. But he hasn’t got any, hasn’t had them in years now. Every clinic he’s come across has always been empty, picked clean by scavengers long before Sam got there. He’s been lucky enough to find gauze to bandage his leg with.

Well, this cuts down his lifespan significantly.

_Fuck_ , he thinks heavily, and then again, _fuck_. His throat closes up, a precursor to tears — if he’s even capable of producing any right now, considering how dehydrated he is. A month had seemed a reasonable measure of time to search a state in. But with this infection, he’s only got days before it turns into sepsis. And once it gets to that point, he’s as good as dead.

Sam lets himself have just a few moments of self-pity — which he deserves, he thinks. Then he makes up his mind, gathers up whatever strength he’s got left, and staggers to his feet, using a tree trunk as support. He reaches for his water bottle inside his bag — three days, if he’s extra careful. And after that, he thinks he can manage a couple days more, if the infection doesn’t get him first.

Less than a week. That’s all he’s got.

Better make it count.

The wound hurts when he walks, but not enough to deter him. He’s had worse pain, after all. The sun climbs into the sky as Sam goes on, eventually stopping right overhead, bearing down on him through the foliage. Sam lets himself stop every now and then to rest, biting his lip against the throbbing in his leg. He’s so dehydrated his lip cracks open, and he tastes copper as he tries to soothe it by running his tongue over it. No point, though. His mouth is so dry that his own tongue feels like sandpaper to him.

He staggers on. It’s not an impressive pace — an ambitious tortoise could outrun him right now — but it’s all he’s capable of. It doesn’t matter how hopeless the situation looks. He’s going to keep walking till he finds Dean or literally drops dead, whatever comes first.

He collapses somewhere around nightfall, too tired to go on further without rest. _Just a couple hours_ , he promises himself as his eyes fall shut. _And then I’ll get up and start again_.

* * *

His leg hurts so much that it wakes him up around dawn. For a wild moment he imagines cutting it off with his dull hunting knife, and then shakes his head as if to clear it of the bizarre fantasy. Even if amputation were somehow possible, he’d bleed out here. He’d give himself a fat embolism or something and flatline here in the middle of nowhere. He’d get another infection, and die of that.

Stupid, he thinks. Delirious, that’s what he is.

He gets to his feet, takes a sip of water, and goes on.

It’s harder today than it was yesterday, though. Sam has to stop every few minutes to rest now, and the pain is escalating, almost blinding him with the sheer intensity. He’s too afraid to stop and check the cut. Instead, he just presses a fist into the bandage over it and tries not to make a sound.

He missteps, and hears a _snap_ so loud it makes him jump a foot into the air. Looking down, he sees a bear trap, glinting malevolently in the early morning sun, and understands that he must be near a camp. There are people nearby.

Maybe they’ve got painkillers, he thinks, almost desperately. Even better, antibiotics.

It goes against every instinct he’s honed in the last five years, but Sam begins following the clear signs of human presence. A trampled plant here, a boot print there. More bear traps than he can count, and he has to walk at a snail’s pace to avoid them. He must be getting closer.

It’s getting harder and harder to think straight. It feels like the wound is screaming at him to pay attention, to do something about it. The pain is overwhelming, making his vision blur and his steps falter. He feels feverish, frail. Is he already septic? He’s not sure, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility. It’s not like he’s living in the most hygienic of conditions.

He stops by a tree to catch his breath. Two seconds later, he hears a loud “Hey!” and looks up to find two men, maybe a few years older than him. They’re both holding rifles, and they look strong, healthy. Just behind them Sam can see a makeshift wooden fence, and understands that he’s reached the camp.

He opens his mouth and tries to speak, but nothing comes out. His throat feels like it’s stuck closed, so dry it hurts. He can feel his heart stuttering in his chest, weak and flighty. _Help_ , he wants to say. _I need help_. Nothing comes out, though.

“Who the hell are you?” yells the second man. They approach, grabbing him by the arms, and he’s unable to help a weak cry of pain as the movement jostles his leg.

“He’s half-dead, dude,” says the first man. “Think we should call the big guy down?”

“Better,” says his companion, and then yells, “JORDAN, GO GET THE BIG GUY!”

This entire time they’re walking towards the fence, half-dragging Sam between them. He tries his best to keep up, legs struggling underneath him, but he’s in too much pain and his body seems to have given up on trying to listen to him. It seems easier just to give up and let himself pass out. Either they fix him up or he dies, no other way about it.

“Who are you?” one of the men asks again. Sam doesn’t reply. He doesn’t think he _can_.

“Stop!” comes a third voice, from further away. Sam would look, take in his surroundings, but he doesn’t think he’s got the strength for it anymore. But then the voice continues, “Dude, come on,” and that. That’s—

That’s _Dean_.

Sam’s head snaps up, eyes searching wildly. It takes him a second to focus his vision on the figure in front of him, and—

Sam makes one last superhuman effort, struggles free, and makes his legs work. He only manages a few more steps before he’s falling again, but—

Strong arms catch him around the chest, hold him up, and then he’s looking into eyes greener than anything he’s ever seen, the color of spring. Swallowing, Sam finds a way to get his throat to work, to make sounds—

“Dean,” he says, hearing his own voice for the first time in over a year, hoarse and broken. Somehow, he manages to smile too, unable to help himself despite feeling his lips split all over again. “ _Dean_ ,” he says again.

“Sammy?” He sounds like he can’t believe it. He’s older, rougher around the edges, and has got the beginnings of a beard going on, but it’s Dean. It’s _Dean_ , because no one else could say his name like that.

“Dude, what’s going on?” asks one of the guys from earlier.

“Shut the fuck up!” Dean responds, not taking his eyes off Sam. Then, again, like it’s the answer to everything, “Sammy?”

Sam tries to smile again, no longer paying attention to his bleeding mouth or the pain in his leg. “Dean,” he says, his own answer. Then, because it’s important, because he did it, “F-found you.”

Dean stares at him for a second longer and then suddenly he’s got his arms around Sam, pulling him in. Sam doesn’t resist, letting himself be pressed against Dean’s body, raising his arms so he can grab on to Dean’s jacket. He’s not going to let go, never, not ever, he won’t, he won’t, it’s Dean, it’s his brother, his big brother—

“Found you,” he rasps into Dean’s neck. “Found you, found you—”

“Yeah,” Dean whispers wetly, holding on to Sam so tight it should hurt. It doesn’t, though, feels like home and safety and answers, and Dean’s crying into Sam’s hair, saying, “Yeah, you found me, you found me, _fuck_ , Sammy—”

He pulls back, large, strong hands framing Sam’s face, and Sam knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop looking, can’t stop taking in his brother’s face, memorizing every line, the sensation of Dean’s thumb swiping across his cheekbone, and oh, he’s crying, he didn’t know he still _could_ , but he _is_ —

And then Dean kisses his forehead hard, saying, “Sam,” and then “Sammy,” and then “kid” and “little brother,” and “fuck, it’s you, it’s _you_ —” and then he’s kissing Sam’s forehead again, and his nose, and his cheek, and then he’s pulling Sam in, and Sam would sob like a baby if he had the strength for it. Instead, all he can do is hold on to Dean with both hands, so tightly it hurts.

“Found you.” It’s like his brain has forgotten other words exist. The amulet is digging into his chest from where it’s pressed between him and Dean, and Dean pulls back, sees it, and lets out a wet laugh before leaning in until their foreheads touch.

“Yeah,” he whispers, tears going down his face, and his voice is lovely and warm and better than anything Sam remembers. “You found me.”

Sam smiles again, and closes his eyes, and lets himself rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment and let me know what you thought! from here on out, the story's going to be moving faster. 
> 
> love,  
> remy x


	3. Hearts, Souls, Beings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam, while still weak, seems to be improving. The boys talk about the time they spent apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really enjoying seeing everyone's comments, and i'm so happy you all seem to be enjoying the story!! here's chapter 3, featuring sick sam and a ton of angst-ridden fluff :D 
> 
> title is from a quote by dianna hardy, from her book _the last dragon_ :  
> "the hugest changes were the ones that could not be seen – that’s where the real apocalypse lay: in people’s hearts, their souls, their beings.”

It takes Dean a moment to realize that the reason Sam is no longer moving is because he is no longer conscious. Tamping down his initial instinct to panic, Dean presses two fingers to the underside of Sam’s jaw, and exhales in relief when he feels a faint, stuttering pulse. Sam’s probably passed out from exhaustion, and—

Dean puts his hand back to Sam’s neck, worried now. His temperature seems high, and now that he thinks of it, Sam had looked listless, dazed almost in the moments leading up to him seeing Dean. And he’s so thin it’s frightening, probably hasn’t eaten in weeks from the looks of it—

Dean takes a deep breath, wills himself to remain calm. First things first.

He winds one arm around Sam’s shoulder and one under his knees, and gets as carefully as he can to his feet. Sam’s tall — probably taller than him now, realizes Dean — but he is frighteningly easy to carry. Dean’s not exaggerating when he thinks he’s probably carried heavier children than Sam.

His little brother’s head lolls against his shoulder as Dean carries him back to his own place. Sam’s breath is warm where it hits Dean’s neck, and Dean’s already running through plans in his mind, trying to figure out the best way to get Sam back to health.

“Get Brenda,” he instructs Jo, just before slipping into his room. He lays Sam down on his own bed, running a critical eye over him so he can figure out where to start.

Clothes, probably. Sam’s only got a torn jacket over his jeans and a thin, worn cotton shirt. It’s nowhere near close to appropriate for the kind of weather they’re having, and Dean frowns as he wonders if he’s got to worry about exposure. Pushing that thought aside to worry about later, Dean begins the slow, careful task of getting Sam out of his clothes.

Sam’s gauntness is even more horrifyingly stark once the shirt is off; Dean can literally count his ribs under his skin. Sam’s breathing is shallow, chest rising with each inhale and exhale and emphasizing the hollowness of his body even more. Dean takes a couple deep breaths himself, and begins wiping the dirt off Sam’s body with a damp cloth.

He uncovers scars, and some half-healed wounds, a few bruises here and there. Sam looks like he’s been through hell — in addition to the split lip, there’s old-bruise discoloration around one side of his face, and his skin is sallow, hot to the touch. It’s worrying, but it’s nothing Dean can’t take care of, nothing a few days of good food and rest won’t fix.

Then he sees the scar just above Sam’s right hip. A perfect circle of teeth marks, so deep-set and detailed that Dean can literally make out individual cusps.

Sam’s been bitten.

It’s a _scar_ , though. Not a fresh wound. It looks old, too, faded and already blending into Sam’s skin, and Dean wonders uneasily what it means. He honestly doubts a sane person would’ve bitten Sam, and especially on his side. It’s got to be from a walker, but Sam’s still Sam, still sane, still human. As far as Dean knows, there’s no cure or vaccine, so… the only thing that makes sense is that Sam, somehow, is immune.

Unease curls in his gut as he remembers he’s sent for Brenda. He trusts her, as far as he _can_ , but something in his instincts is blaring, telling him that she can’t know, that no one can know. He doesn’t know why, can’t pinpoint the source of his unease, but he cleans the area and puts on a large square of gauze over the bite anyway.

Sam’s pants come off next. He’s got them cinched at the waist by a belt with a hole poked in it almost halfway through its length. Probably the only thing that kept them up. Dean peels them off Sam carefully, first moving one leg out, and then the other.

There’s a bandage wound around Sam’s right thigh, with a brown spot of blood right in the center of it. With all the caution of a surgeon, Dean finds the edge and peels it back, inhaling sharply when he sees the injury underneath. It’s a long cut, about four inches, on the inside of Sam’s thigh, and it looks infected — there is pus oozing from it, and the edges are an angry-red, radiating heat.

Well, this explains Sam’s temperature and general condition. This, plus the dehydration, and his clear malnourishment. Dean wonders, not for the first time, when Sam had last eaten. He’ll ask Sam once he’s awake.

“Hey, Chief.”

Dean looks up to see Brenda standing in the entrance, holding her bag. “Hey,” he answers. “Come in.” He waits till she’s next to him before pointing to the cut on Sam’s thigh. “Look at that.”

“Oh, crap,” is her first reaction, which is not very optimistic.

Dean frowns. “What?”

“It’s infected,” Brenda says. “Figure you know that, though.”

“What can you do about it?” Dean asks. “We’ve got amoxclav, and that other one—”

“Oral antibiotics won’t help,” Brenda cuts in. “He’ll need the stronger stuff, Dean. Intravenous.”

It takes Dean a moment to understand what she means, and the implications, but then he nods immediately. “Do it.”

“We only have enough left for one person,” Brenda reminds him. “I don’t even know if we can find more, Dean. It’s the good stuff. More precious than gold right now.”

“I said do it,” Dean repeats, tone firm. He doesn’t care if it’s the last bit of antibiotic in the entire world. If it can save Sam, he’ll inject it himself.

“He might die anyway,” Brenda says, frowning. “Dean, look at him. Even if it wasn’t for the infection, he’s—”

“He’s what?” Dean cuts in. “Weak? Dehydrated? I _know_ , Brenda, and I’m telling you to do it anyway.”

“If he dies it’ll be a waste of antibiotic.”

“Then it’s a good thing he’s not going to die, isn’t it?” Dean replies, making eye contact with her, daring her silently to argue some more.

Brenda sighs. “Dean.”

“Yes?” Tone soft, dangerous. It works; she shakes her head but doesn’t argue more.

“I’ll go get it,” she says. “We don’t have IV tubing or cannulas, so I’ll have to use a syringe. There’s only enough for one course, Dean.”

“Okay. What else?” Back to business.

“He’ll need fluids,” Brenda decides, turning her eyes back to Sam’s still form on Dean’s bed. “And good food.”

“I’ll ask Jo—”

“No,” Brenda interrupts. “He eat any of that he’ll throw up. His stomach won’t be able to handle it, Dean. Stuff like broth’s better, it’ll be easier on his GI tract.”

“Yeah, okay.” She’s the expert; he won’t contest. “I’ll talk to Jo, see if we can make rabbit stew or something.”

Brenda nods approvingly. “Just gotta take it easy,” she tells Dean. “If it goes well, he’ll be fine soon.”

“ _If_ it goes well? It’ll go well, Brenda.” Dean’s confident because it’s all he’s got right now; the alternative is unthinkable.

“Sure, Dean,” Brenda says after a moment, her face unreadable. She stands, and says, “I’ll go get the stuff for the infection. Think you can deal with the rest?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, turning back to Sam. Brenda leaves her bag behind, and he rummages through it for Betadine and gauze to wipe Sam’s injuries with. The infected cut he leaves for Brenda to deal with; he can barely look at it without wanting to vomit. “You gotta be okay,” he whispers to Sam, gently moving Sam’s hair out of his face. “Y’hear, Sammy? You gotta be fine, ‘cause I don’t know what I’ll do if you’re not.”

Sam needs a bath; Sam needs several baths. That, Dean thinks, can be dealt with later. For now, he cleans every single injury he can find, covers them with gauze, and keeps his fingers in Sam’s hair until Brenda returns.

She’s got a syringe wrapped in plastic and a bottle of distilled water with her, and Dean watches as she mixes the powdered antibiotic in with the water. “What’s that?” he asks her as she loads it into the syringe, tapping it to make sure there are no bubbles.

“It’s a cephalosporin,” Brenda answers. “The good stuff,” she adds with a snort in response to Dean’s confused expression. “I’ll give him some every day, and with luck, the infection should clear up. Last thing we need is for him to become septic.”

Dean nods, pressing his lips together tightly. He remembers Ellen’s death all too well, remembers as the infection reached her bloodstream and shut her body down within hours. He’d have killed to have the cephalo-whatever then, but all they’d had was painkillers and all they’d been able to do was make her comfortable. Brenda hadn’t been with them then; they’d found her two months later.

“Oh, and Dean?” Brenda says when she’s done. “Keep him cool. He’s been in the sun for who knows how long, probably got heat fatigue.”

“Got it,” Dean says. “And Brenda?”

“Yeah?”

“If he dies…” Dean trails off, but the warning in his tone is clear.

Brenda narrows her eyes at him. “Like you said, he won’t.”

Dean nods, short and blunt. “Yeah,” is all he says. “Thanks,” he adds a moment later.

“No problem,” she says, eyes still narrowed at him. “I’ll be by later to see how he’s doing.” And with that, she leaves him and Sam alone.

“Probably coulda been nicer,” Dean murmurs as he dips a clean cloth into his washbasin. “Eh, Sammy?” He wrings it out, folds it, puts it on Sam’s forehead.

He can’t help it; even before, he’d always been unreasonable when it came to Sam. It had driven John up the damn wall, trying to reason with Dean about Sam. _You spoil him too much_ , he would say, and Dean would reply with, _yeah well, I don’t care_. And now, when he’s gotten Sam back after five years of wondering if he was dead? Now, Dean’s ready to burn down anything and anyone if it meant making Sam healthy again.

He remains sitting by Sam’s side for around half an hour before Sam moves, mumbling something in his sleep. Dean leans forward. “Sammy?” he breathes, wondering if Sam’s waking up.

Sam’s eyes flutter open, glazed with fever and exhaustion. “Dean?” he whispers, voice cracking.

“Yeah, ‘s me,” Dean answers with a smile, reaching out to take Sam’s hand. “You all right?”

“It’s really you? I’m not dreaming?” Sam rasps, not taking his eyes off Dean for even a second.

“No, Sam,” Dean tells him, squeezing his hand. “You found me, remember?”

It takes Sam a moment, but then he breaks into a slow smile. “Yeah,” he breathes out.

“You’re pretty sick,” Dean says. “You passed out, you know. Scared the shit out of me. But you’re going to be okay.”

Sam nods, accepting this easily. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and then, “Water?”

“Yeah, just hang on—” Dean finds his canteen, and helps Sam sit up before handing it to him.

Sam takes a few slow sips before handing it back, licking his lips. “Feel like shit,” he informs Dean, reaching out.

Dean shifts closer, lets Sam put his entire weight on him. “Yeah, look like it too,” he jokes. “You need a haircut, man. And like, a million baths.”

Sam laughs, a weak, rattling sound. “Yeah, well, ‘s been a while,” he mutters, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. Then he lets out a small groan. “Ugh.”

“What is it?” Dean asks immediately.

“Feel sick,” Sam mumbles. His hand is curled into Dean’s shirt. Then, “Why’m I naked?”

“You’re not _entirely_ naked,” Dean points out. “I left your underwear on.”

“Thanks,” Sam answers, and despite the weakness in his voice, there’s a hint of snark.

It makes Dean smile. “Welcome,” he replies teasingly. “Hadta fix you up,” he tells Sam. “Speaking of—” He helps Sam lie down again, and then puts his hand over the square of gauze above Sam’s hip. “Sam, what happened there?”

Sam takes in a sharp breath. “It’s a long story,” he mumbles, averting his gaze.

“I got time,” Dean tells him, lying down on his back next to Sam. He outstretches his arm, and Sam takes the invitation, curling closer and putting his head on Dean’s bicep.

“Got bitten,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

“Figured as much,” Dean answers wryly. “When was this?”

There’s a pause. Sam curls his hand in Dean’s shirt, and answers, “About a couple years? I think?”

Dean goes still. “You got bitten and you didn’t turn?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers. “I need more water, my throat hurts,” he adds.

“Okay, just—” Dean goes through the whole thing again, helping Sam up, helping him drink. It makes sense, he thinks as he watches Sam take tiny sips. Sam probably hasn’t spoken this much in a very long time, and his throat must not be used to it anymore. “Were you alone?” he asks Sam. “All this time?”

Sam nods, handing Dean the canteen back. “Yeah,” he says, lying down again. Dean follows, and they return to their previous position. The cold cloth Dean had put on Sam’s forehead slips in between them, and he fishes it out from under his arm, putting it aside.

“Sammy, man, what happened to you?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Sam’s damp forehead.

“Tell you later?” Sam asks, closing his eyes again. “I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “But you gotta tell me everything.”

“I will,” Sam mumbles.

Dean reaches for his blanket and wraps it over Sam with his free hand, waiting for Sam to settle. Sam eventually goes still with his face half-buried in Dean’s neck, hand gripping Dean’s shirt like he’s afraid of getting lost. It tugs at Dean’s heart, reminds him of five years earlier — but it’s easier to brush it off now. Now that he’s got Sam back, it feels like something from a past life, faraway and fading already. Just a nightmare.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” he whispers into Sam’s forehead, trying not to get a mouthful of Sam’s dirty hair.

Sam hums, and a few seconds later, his breathing evens out, slow and deep.

Dean remains awake, though. For one, it’s still morning. For another, now that he’s seen the bitemark on Sam’s side and the cut on his thigh, he doesn’t think he can really rest until Sam’s all right again. He hasn’t forgotten Brenda’s expression when she’d told him that Sam might die anyway, despite the antibiotics. He hates to think that it could be a possibility, but he has to admit, from a logical standpoint, that her reticence is not out of place. There’s only enough celpha— cephalo— _something_ for one person, and he’s just made the executive decision to give it all to his little brother, who according to Brenda might not survive anyway.

Sam will be fine, Dean tells himself. Sam will be just fucking _fine_ , because he can’t _not_ be. He’s fought so long and so hard just to come back to Dean, against all odds, against every chance and every logical thought that he was dead. Dean’s not about to let him give in now. Not that he would, Dean thinks with a fierce kind of pride. Sam’s always been a fighter, never known when to stop. Dean knows him, even now he knows him five years on, and he knows that to his last breath Sam’s going to keep fighting.

He just hopes that last breath is decades away, and not days.

* * *

Dean isn’t aware that he’s dozed off, not until he jolts awake to the sensation of something digging into his side. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he turns to see Sam’s amulet slipping into the space between their bodies, the little pointy horns poking him sharply. Muttering, he pulls it out, arranges it on Sam’s chest, and settles back again.

Sam is still sound asleep in the exact same position, wrapped around Dean like he used to as a child. Dean doesn’t know if it’s wishful thinking, but his little brother looks better already, even if it’s just a little. There’s a flush to his cheeks, and his skin seems cooler, like his temperature’s going down.

Dean turns his head towards the entrance of his place. There’s a little bit of light visible around the edges of the door, and Dean guesses it must be late afternoon. He’s a little surprised that he’s slept this long, but then again maybe it’s not that unusual, considering the morning he’s had.

What _is_ unusual, though, is that for the first time in five years, Dean slept without any nightmares, without any disturbances.

His bladder, he realizes after a few seconds, is uncomfortably full. The problem is that Sam’s still stuck to him like a limpet, and trying to separate him would doubtlessly wake him up. Sam’s still got that death grip in Dean’s shirt, and Dean’s loath to try and break it, knowing how much it will scare Sam if he wakes up and doesn’t see Dean anywhere.

“Hey,” he murmurs, shaking Sam a little. “Man, I gotta pee.”

Sam murmurs something but doesn’t wake up.

“Sammy. Kid. I’m serious, man, it’s not gonna end well if I don’t get up _right now_ —”

“Hurry,” Sam mumbles, shifting a little so that he’s lying on his back, and thankfully letting go of Dean’s shirt. Taking the opportunity, Dean races outside, managing to get his pants unzipped just before he has a very unfortunate accident.

He’s just about done when he hears footsteps. Zipping himself up, he turns to see Jo standing there, looking completely unbothered by the fact that she’s walked in on him peeing. “Privacy,” he grumbles.

“Whatever,” she says. “How’s he doing?” she asks next, nodding her head towards the entrance to Dean’s little shack.

“Fine,” Dean answers, a little wary. He doesn’t know what it is about Sam that has him closing himself off to everyone like this, even to Jo who’s had his back more times than he could count.

“Good,” she says, uncrossing her arms and putting her hands in her pockets. “Must be nice.”

She looks wistful. Dean softens a little. “Yeah,” is all he says. He knows she’s thinking of her mother right now, of what she would give to have her mother back from the dead.

Sam didn’t die, though, is the thing. He was just… lost, for a while. But he found his way back, came back to Dean, and that’s all the difference in the world.

Then Jo says, “Brenda told me you gave him the last of the cephalosporins.”

Dean nods. “Infected cut. Nasty.”

“She said he might die anyway,” Jo says.

“God, did she babble to everyone?” Dean asks, irritated.

“Just me,” Jo assures him, “but Dean… if people hear, they won’t like it. They’ll see it as a waste.”

“A waste?” Dean’s voice carries a warning. “A _waste_? My little brother’s a waste?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jo says, holding her palms out. “Keep your shit together, Dean. I’m just giving you a heads up.”

“He’s not going to die,” Dean growls, “so it’s not a _waste_ , is it?”

“Okay, okay,” Jo says. “Hold your horses, Dean. It’s not me you’re mad at. Or Brenda,” she adds quickly.

“Tell her,” Dean says, “that she better keep this to herself. Or—”

“Or what?” Jo cuts in. “Dean, we need her. She’s the only one here with any kind of medical training. We can’t just cut her loose, or whatever.”

“Didn’t say that,” Dean answers shortly.

“I’ll talk to her,” Jo says after a few long moments of studying Dean. “You — you go look after your brother.” Without waiting for a reply, she turns and walks away.

“Fuck,” sighs Dean the moment she’s out of earshot, rubbing a hand down his face. Last thing he needs right now is rumors and whispers and all that bullshit.

He’ll deal with it later; he decides as he ducks back into his place. Right now, he just needs to focus on getting his little brother healthy again.

Sam turns on his side the moment he senses Dean’s presence, returning to his previous position. Dean presses a light kiss to his forehead, murmurs, “Sleep, kid,” and continues staring at the ceiling above him, head spinning.

* * *

Sam wakes again sometime after nightfall, struggling to sit up. Dean, who hasn’t slept a wink after his conversation with Jo, helps him up. “How are you feeling?” he asks, putting the back of his hand to Sam’s forehead.

In response, Sam reaches out for the canteen. Dean passes it to him. “Temperature’s lower,” he tells Sam as his little brother drinks slowly. “You’ve still got a fever, but you seem better.”

He looks it, too — there’s more energy in his movements as he hands the canteen back. “I feel okay,” he tells Dean, and his voice sounds a little stronger too. “Not too great, but— better.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Brenda said she’ll come by later to check on you.”

“Brenda?”

“Our medic,” Dean tells him. He moves until he’s sitting with his back to the wall, and Sam follows him, leaning heavily into his side. “She used to be a nursing student, before everything happened.”

“Okay,” Sam says after a moment. “What did she say?”

“Well, that one’s infected, obviously,” Dean says, nodding to the new bandage on Sam’s thigh. “As for the rest of it — some fluids, some good food, and you should be fine.” He leaves out the part where everyone is convinced Sam’s going to die.

“You guys got antibiotics?”

“Yep,” Dean answers. “The usual stuff, plus some stronger stuff. That’s what Brenda is giving you.” He spots the look on Sam’s face and grins, answering Sam’s question before he can even ask. “You can ask her when she comes by, geekboy.”

Sam quirks a little half-smile at the old nickname. “Can’t pronounce it, can you?”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, but without any heat.

Sam’s answering laugh is hoarse, and sounds a little painful to be honest, but it warms Dean up anyway. “Man, I missed you,” he admits, resting his head on top of Sam’s and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“I missed you too,” Sam answers. “I was so scared that— that I’d die before I found you.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” Dean answers fiercely. “You hear me? You’re gonna be just fine, man. You’re all right now.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, smiling again. “I know.” Then, “So… what happened, Dean? After you got on the plane?”

“Oh, man, that was _such_ a shitshow,” Dean sighs, shaking his head. “You up for it?”

“Yeah, I wanna know!” Sam says. “Tell me _everything_.”

“Okay, so I kept waiting, right, I thought there were gonna be more planes and you’d be with me soon,” Dean begins, going back over the events of the last five years in his mind’s eye. “Nothing, though, and it turned out that everything was just… fucked. I stayed in Colorado for a while, at this air base they were using, but then people began dying off, and I just— left.”

“Wait, I was there!” Sam says, sitting up straighter so he can look at Dean. “Colorado — I was there!”

“When?” Dean asks, astounded. “I’d have seen you—”

“I got there ‘bout a year later,” Sam replies.

“Ah.” Dean exhales. “Nah, I’d already left, you missed me by about three months. I, uh, I went back home, to, um, Lawrence. Figured I’d try to find you, but you weren’t there. Thought I’d go to Bobby’s, after, but he wasn’t there, and Jody said she hadn’t seen you either.”

“I did go, though!” Sam says, eyes wide. “I went when I realized there were no more planes, I figured at least I’d be safe with Bobby — but he wasn’t there! I found Rumsfeld, though,” he adds, voice small.

Dean sighs. “Yeah. Poor dog, man.”

Sam puts his head back on Dean’s shoulder. “I stayed the night,” he tells Dean, “but then I left again in the morning. I didn’t see Jody or anything.”

“Makes sense,” Dean says slowly. “Man. Couple close calls, huh?”

“Mm,” Sam responds. “What did you do then?”

“I just left,” Dean tells him. “Jody offered to let me stay, but, uh, I just wanted to find you, man. I met up with some people ‘bout a year after that, Ellen and Jo, and we traveled together. We found Bobby in Montana, and—”

“Bobby?” Sam sounds excited. “Bobby’s here?”

Dean’s heart sinks. “No, kiddo,” he murmurs, wondering how best to break the news. “Didn’t make it.”

Sam processes this, and then closes his eyes. “What happened?” he asks, turning his face into Dean’s shoulder.

“Rescue mission went bad,” Dean tells him quietly, rubbing circles into Sam’s warm skin with his thumb. “About a year ago.”

“Oh.” Sam’s voice is small again.

“He missed you, you know,” Dean says. “A lot. He was the only one who knew you, other than me. So, he was the only one who got me, you know?”

“He ever tell you what happened?” Sam asks, a few moments later.

“Said he got attacked by walkers,” Dean begins.

“Walkers?”

“Ah, you know. Infected people.”

“Right… go on.”

“Anyway, they, uh, they got Rumsfeld. Bobby had to put him down. He ran though, ‘cause there were too many. He said he went to Lawrence, lookin’ for us, but he didn’t find us. Obviously. And then he had to leave Lawrence too, when it wasn’t safe anymore.”

Sam exhales, long and shaky. “So I missed Bobby, too. Sounds like just by a few days.”

“You can’t have known,” Dean tells him gently. “There was no way to communicate, man, you remember everything’d stopped working.”

“I know,” Sam sighs. “What happened next?”

Dean lets out a thoughtful hum, resting his cheek on Sam’s head again. “Well, we kinda… made this camp here, the four of us. Bobby was the big guy, but then after he died it was me. Ellen — Jo’s mom — got hurt and it got infected, and she died too. We didn’t have antibiotics so we couldn’t do anything. It ruined Jo, man. Her mom had been all she had.”

“What happened to her?” Sam asks. His hand is back in Dean’s shirt.

“Nothing, she’s okay,” Dean answers. “I’ll introduce you.”

“She your girlfriend?” Sam asks, and Dean’s relieved to see him smile again even if it’s at his expense.

“Nah,” Dean answers, tugging playfully at what he can reach of Sam’s hair. “Not gonna lie, I thought about it, but, uh, wouldn’t be fair to her, man. All I ever thought about was you. And she’s too messed up about her mom, and— it woulda been a disaster.”

Sam accepts that, weakly batting Dean’s hand away with his free hand. “And that’s it?” he asks.

“More or less,” Dean answers vaguely. “You? What happened to you?”

“Well, I told you about Bobby, and Colorado,” Sam answers. “I left after that, I’d just pick a place on the map and walk through and look out for any towns that had people in ‘em, just in case you were there. But after some time, there were no more people, and it was all just infected— walkers. And I got attacked, and there were too many, and one of ‘em bit me.”

“And?” Dean asks quietly.

Sam takes a sip of water from the canteen Dean’s placed within his reach. “There were people there, and they saved me, but they didn’t wanna help ‘cause they thought I’d turn. So, they just took my stuff and left. I thought I was gonna die, or turn, but that didn’t happen. So, I figured, maybe I’m immune, you know?”

“Immune?” Dean repeats.

Sam nods. “Yeah. I thought if I’m immune then there must be others, too. But then sometime after I got taken by these, like, army people or something, I dunno, and they said they’d never heard of anybody being immune before.”

“Was there a woman?” Dean asks. “Tall, kinda built, red hair?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers, sounding surprised. “How’d you know?”

“That’s not army, Sammy,” Dean tells him. “They’ve got fatigues ‘cause it helps them blend in, but they’re more like… some kinda militia or something, I dunno. They’re still workin’ on trying to find a cure, but they’re… not very ethical about it, man. Capturing walkers, experimenting on them… I know they’re infected, but they were people once, you know? It’s not right.”

“They seemed off to me,” Sam says after a pause. “I mean, I thought about staying, ‘cause if they could use my blood to find a cure or something, that’s good, right? But then I remembered I had to find you. Everything else came later, man. So, I escaped when they were all asleep.”

Dean chuckles at that. “That’s my boy,” he says, giving Sam a messy kiss to the temple.

Sam grins. “Gross,” he says, but makes no move to put space between them or tell Dean off. “I was on my own after that,” he continues after a moment. “Just kept walking and walking, thinking maybe I’d find you soon. And, well, here I am. Found you.” He smiles.

“Here you are,” Dean says, and squeezes Sam’s shoulders. “And if you think I’m lettin’ you outta my sight now—”

“As if I’d _want_ to go anywhere,” Sam retorts, letting himself be pulled further into Dean’s side. “It was all worth it, you know? All of it. Just to find you.”

Warmth floods through Dean’s entire body, making his eyes well up embarrassingly. He’s done enough crying today, he knows, and this is just undignified now, but— fuck it. It’s _Sam_. “You and your chick-flick moments,” he mutters, wiping at his eyes with his free hand.

Sam laughs weakly. “Missed givin’ you hell,” he mutters.

“You didn’t give me hell, I gave you hell,” Dean corrects with a grin. “And man, I got five years’ worth of crap to give you the moment you’re all better.”

“You do that and I’ll tell everyone ‘bout the time I cut up all your underwear and you had to go commando till Dad took you out for new ones,” Sam says with a grin.

“I’ll tell ‘em ‘bout the Nair in your shampoo,” Dean threatens.

“Superglue on the toilet.”

“You little shit.” That had been Sam’s revenge for the shampoo trick, and it had taken Dean four hours to unglue himself, losing some of his skin and all of his dignity in the process.

Sam grins wider. His lips don’t crack, Dean notices with satisfaction. “I win,” his little brother says smugly. “Oh, by the way,” he says a moment later, shrugging Dean’s arm off so he can sit up. “This is yours—” He takes the amulet off from around his neck and holds it out to Dean.

Dean looks down at it, glinting dull bronze, and then up at Sam. There’s a little bit of moonlight coming in through the gaps in the roofing, and Sam’s face is illuminated in lines, but his eyes are wide and earnest, and Dean’s heart twinges. “Kept it safe, huh?” he whispers, hoarse, as he reaches out to take it from Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam whispers back. “Had to give it to you. ‘S yours, Dean—” He takes it from Dean’s still hands and slips it over Dean’s neck. “See? Looks better on you.”

Dean laughs, a wet, shaky sound, and puts his arms around Sam. “Most things do,” he teases, only half-serious as he hugs his brother. “Thank you,” he adds a moment later, this time heartfelt. “Thank you, Sammy.”

“Always, Dean,” Sam answers, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you thought! as always, update will be in a couple days :)


	4. An Endless Life Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean discuss what Sam's immunity means, in the bigger picture of things. Sam meets Jo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's chapter four!! title is from _master of stupidity_ by toba beta:  
> "end of the human race is just part of an endless life cycle.”

“Come on, man,” Dean says, patiently holding up the spoon to Sam’s mouth. “Just a bit more.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Sam responds, in a tone that sounds childish despite his best efforts. “Dean, I’m full, I literally _can’t_ —”

“You barely had any,” Dean argues. And he’s right; the bowl of broth in Dean’s lap is more than half-full.

“I had as much as I could,” Sam says. “Please?”

“Dude,” Dean says, finally giving up and letting the spoon fall back into the bowl. “That’s not fair, man.”

“What?” Sam asks innocently.

“The eyes,” Dean says. “You’re making the eyes.”

“What eyes?” Sam grins, but then winces when he feels his lower lip split open.

Dean sighs when he sees it, and reaches out to blot the blood with his own sleeve. “Drink more water, Sam,” he says, pushing his canteen into Sam’s hands.

Sam accepts it — his throat is still painfully dry, though much better than it used to be — and takes a few sips. In the meanwhile, Dean puts the bowl of soup aside and waits for Sam to finish before reaching out and putting his hand to Sam’s forehead. “Much better,” he reports. “Fever’s gone, I think. How you feelin’?”

“Fifth time,” Sam tells him, referring to the number of times he’s asked so far. “I’m okay, Dean.”

“I know, I know,” Dean says. “Pain?”

Sam thinks about it, and then holds up five fingers. “Could be worse,” he says, and it’s true. Brenda’s been by to check up on him and give him another dose of the cephalosporin. She’s also handed Dean a few packets of something called oral rehydration therapy, which Dean promptly emptied into his canteen as per Brenda’s instructions. Apparently, it’s supposed to help Sam rehydrate and get his strength back, as well as all the minerals he needs to get better. All it’s done so far is make him vaguely nauseous, but, Brenda said, that wasn’t anything to worry about.

“You need more meds?” Dean asks him, sounding concerned.

Sam shakes his head, and then groans when the movement makes him dizzy. Ignoring Dean’s reproachful look, he says, “Nah, I just had some a while ago. Dean, I’m _okay_.”

“If you say so,” Dean says. “Drink more water.”

“I do say so,” Sam tells him, and does as he’s told. He makes a face at the taste of the ORT solution, but reminds himself that it’s just for a couple days.

It’s mid-afternoon, the day after Sam’s arrival at camp. He’d woken up around noon to the sight of Dean sitting up next to him, running his fingers through Sam’s hair and humming under his breath. It made him smile, reminded him of weekend mornings back home in Lawrence, when the two of them would sleep in and Sam would often wake to Dean playing with his hair. Even though they hadn’t shared rooms, they’d often have mini-sleepovers, staying up half the night watching movies or just talking.

“I miss home,” he tells Dean suddenly, lying back down.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean answers; going by his wistful expression, Sam thinks he’s been remembering the same thing.

“You think the world’s ever gonna be okay again?” Sam asks, turning to his side. He’s wearing a pair of Dean’s pants and one of his lighter shirts, so that his body doesn’t overheat despite the chill in the air.

“I don’t know,” Dean answers pensively. He remains sitting, but his fingers land in Sam’s hair, and Sam’s eyes close automatically at the sensation. He’s missed this, the kind of casual comfort and wordless intimacy he has with his brother.

“You think I could help?” Sam murmurs, his entire body relaxing at the feeling of Dean’s blunt nails lightly scratching his scalp.

“How?”

“Y’know,” Sam says. “My blood.”

Dean’s fingers go still. “Your blood?”

Sam opens his eyes, miffed. “Yeah. Why’d you stop?”

“Like a cat, I swear,” Dean mutters, resuming playing with Sam’s hair. “You really think your blood might help?”

“I mean,” Sam says after a pause. “I’m immune, right? So maybe my blood can be used to find a cure or something.”

“By _whom_?” Dean asks. “Not those people,” he adds quickly before Sam can retort. “That ginger chick and her squad. They’re sketchy as hell, Sammy, I don’t trust them.”

“Who else is there, though?” Sam wonders, closing his eyes again.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, after a pause. “But _not_ them.”

“Dean…”

“Sammy, I don’t care if they’re the only people who can do it,” Dean says, and the ferocity of his tone makes Sam open his eyes and look up at him again, a little surprised. “I’ve seen what they do to walkers, man. Seen the corpses they leave behind. You think I’d trust them with _you_? No way, man.”

“Can’t be that bad,” Sam argues.

“No?” Dean says incredulously. “Sam. Kiddo. You didn’t _see_ —” He pauses, and Sam watches, uneasy, as Dean takes a moment to compose himself, fingers pausing in Sam’s hair again. It’s strange to see his brother rattled like this. Dean swallows, and then continues, “Jo and I ran a mission once that brought us close to one of their bases. We were out on a raid, but figured since we’re here, might as well take a look around. We sneaked around the place, tried to do some recon. Found this mass grave, and it was so full that the dirt barely covered the bodies, man. Could see bits and pieces stickin’ out. Arm here, leg there. The occasional head.”

“Just the head?” Sam whispers, his nausea getting worse at the mental images.

“Just the head,” Dean confirms. His hand moves down from Sam’s hair to his cheek, where it rests. “There was this pile o’ bodies nearby, I guess waitin’ to be buried. Sliced open, man. Organs missing. I don’t know what the _fuck_ they do in there, Sam, but it sure as hell ain’t right. Walkers were people, and even they don’t deserve to be tortured like that. And you? My little brother?” Dean’s fingers twitch on Sam’s cheek. “No way. No way in _hell_.”

Sam reaches up, grabs Dean’s hand. “I had no idea,” he murmurs.

Dean grimaces. “Wish you still didn’t,” he says, turning his wrist to hold Sam’s hand back. “They’re just awful, man. Don’t even have a name, and no one knows what exactly they do in there. ‘S like a bunch of mad scientists who _say_ they want a cure but they’re not exactly following any ethical guidelines, you know?”

“There’s gotta be someone else, though, right?” Sam asks, keeping his voice low to avoid strain on his throat.

“I dunno,” Dean says. “I never heard of anyone else. Far’s I know, no one else has, either.”

“Maybe we can look,” Sam suggests. “Once I’m better.”

“Maybe,” Dean answers vaguely, but he looks away, and Sam knows he’s not convinced. He gets it, sort of — Dean’s got a good thing going here, the closest to having a home that either of them will ever get. People look up to him here, trust him to lead them. Sam understands why Dean would not want to leave all this behind and risk their lives, especially now that they’re together again.

But at the same time, they can’t _not_ do something about it.

It’ll have to be a problem for later, though. Right now, Sam’s still weak, still exhausted. Brenda says he’s got a fighting chance, but Sam is all too aware of how close he still is to dying. It takes all he has in him just to get some food down, and Sam has no idea how long it’ll take for him to be back to normal. If it’ll ever get to that point.

Dean’s optimistic, though, and for his sake, Sam tries to be, too. He’s just found his brother, after five years of searching. He doesn’t want to let go now. All they’ve got left is each other, and Sam refuses to leave his brother all alone in the world again.

Sam yawns, and then says, “We’ll figure something out. Right, Dean?”

“Right,” Dean repeats, and gives Sam a smile. “Get some rest now, kid. Gotta get your strength back, let your body heal.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and yawns again. Just a small meal and a conversation and he’s so tired already. “What’re you gon’ do?”

“Gonna stay right here with you,” Dean replies at once.

“Don’ you have things to do?” Sam mumbles, closing his eyes and letting go of Dean’s hand so he can shift his head onto Dean’s lap.

“It can wait,” Dean answers, sounding fond. His hands are in Sam’s hair again, and Sam lets out a contented sigh. “See you later, Sammy.”

“Mm, bye,” Sam murmurs, and goes to sleep with the sensation of a calloused thumb lightly stroking his cheek.

* * *

Sam wakes to the sound of conversation. Hushed voices, speaking rapidly in what seems to be an argument. He picks out Dean’s, easily — the other is feminine.

“It’s been two days—” the second voice is saying.

“I don’t care if it takes a month,” Dean cuts in. “I’m not leavin’ here until he’s all right again!”

“You have a duty to the people here, and that’s not gonna go away just ‘cause your brother’s back—”

Sam decides now is a good time to let them know he’s awake. “Dean?” he mutters, cracking his eyes open.

Immediately Dean’s attention is on him. “Yeah,” he says, hand coming to rest momentarily on Sam’s face. “How you doin’, kid?”

“Water,” Sam croaks. A second later, he feels Dean’s legs shift under him, and then Dean’s helping him sit up, handing him the canteen.

Sam takes a few sips of the blessedly cold water and hands it to Dean. Dean takes it back and sets it aside, and then lets Sam lean into his side. “Pain?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Sam murmurs, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. He narrows his eyes, trying to focus in the darkness of Dean’s room, and manages to make out Dean’s companion, a girl around his age with long blond hair. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she answers, guarded. “I’m Jo.”

“Sam,” he tells her.

She gives him a wry grin. “I’m aware.”

“Has Dean been slacking off?”

That earns him a light jab in the ribs from his brother. “I’m not _slacking off_ —”

“He’s been busy with you,” is Jo’s diplomatic answer.

“I’ve mostly been sleeping,” Sam says.

“And he’s been watching over you like a guard dog,” Jo replies.

“But cuter, right, Sammy?” Dean says, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Puppies are cuter,” Sam tells him, reaching out till he can get a grip on Dean’s shirt. “You shouldn’t slack off, though,” he adds. “Go do your… stuff.”

“Well, it’s night now, no stuff that needs doin’,” Dean points out gently. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Jo’s more than holdin’ the fort up.”

“Yeah, I am,” Jo says, sure of herself, and Sam decides he likes her. “But I’m not the one people are gonna listen to, Dean.”

“Yeah, you are,” Dean argues. “I never asked for this, Jo.”

“You think I did?” she retorts, incredulous. “I’m only here ‘cause my mom was!”

“And I’m only here ‘cause Bobby was,” counters Dean. “‘S not like I _enjoy_ bossing people around, bein’ responsible for their lives—”

“Well, someone’s gotta be!”

“Why’s it gotta be me?”

“Don’t whine, Dean,” Jo scoffs. “Either get your shit together and step up, or admit you can’t.”

Dean frowns. “My shit’s together—”

“He’ll be there tomorrow,” Sam cuts in, before Dean can finish. His voice is still weak and hoarse, but it has both Jo and Dean shutting up at once, their attention now on him.

“Sammy—” begins Dean after a pause.

“He’ll be there,” Sam repeats, and gives Jo his most winning smile. The closest he can manage, anyway, without his lip cracking again.

It seems to work, anyhow — she softens some, and then says, “See you tomorrow, then, Dean,” and gives Dean the kind of smile that promises she’ll eviscerate him if he doesn’t show up.

Dean glares instead of replying, and doesn’t stop the entire time she gets to her feet and makes her way back out. Then he looks back at Sam, sighs, and asks, “Why’d you do that, man?”

“‘Cause it’s your _job_ ,” Sam tells him, closing his eyes.

Dean puts an arm around him. “Ain’t more important than you are.”

“I’m gonna be okay,” Sam says. “Brenda said so too, right?”

“She said you had a chance but you weren’t outta the woods yet,” Dean corrects.

“‘S _something_ ,” Sam argues.

“Look, Sam, I’m not leavin’ till I know for sure you’re gonna be okay.” Dean’s tone brooks no argument. “And that’s that, okay? I don’t wanna hear a word about it.”

Sam considers arguing, but decides not to, in the end. “Then I guess I’ll just have to come with you,” he says in the end.

“Sam,” sighs Dean. “You can barely sit up without gettin’ tired, man.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam insists.

“What, you want me to carry you around all day?” Dean asks sarcastically. “And don’t say you’ll be fine,” he adds the second Sam opens his mouth.

“Just leave me somewhere and do your thing,” Sam says. “I’ll hang out with the old folks, or something.”

“We got two, and they’re both assholes,” Dean tells him, now amused. “Though they might just come around and decide they like you. Old people frickin’ love you, dude.”

“It’s my good looks and charm,” Sam says with a grin.

“It’s the fact that you look like a twelve-year-old in need of feeding,” Dean corrects with a snort. “The grandmas are gonna have a field day with you.”

“Does this mean you’ll go?” Sam asks.

There’s a pause, during which Dean seems to arrive at the realization that he has been successfully played by his little brother. Sam opens his eyes, grinning at the outrage on his brother’s face as Dean says, “You little _shit_.”

“Well?” he prompts.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. But the moment I think you’re not okay,” he adds threateningly, “I’m carryin’ you back in here.”

“Whatever,” Sam says, now satisfied. “Hey, d’you think I could get somethin’ to eat? I’m kinda hungry now.”

“Wait here,” Dean tells him, gently separating himself from Sam. “I’ll get you something. Be back in a few, Sammy.”

Well, thinks Sam as he watches Dean go out. Tomorrow should be interesting, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are greatly appreciated!! thank you!


	5. Fight, Help, Be Prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam hangs out with a pair of elderly lesbians. An incident brings Dean's recent decisions and leadership qualities under question, threatening his and Sam's place in the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are really picking up now, plot-wise! i hope you're all enjoying, and i cannot thank you enough for the lovely reviews <3
> 
> title is from the book _world war z: an oral history of the zombie war_ by max brooks:  
> "if you can fight, fight. help each other, be prepared for anything.”

Dean’s not sure about this.

This is probably the ninetieth time he’s had that though since he’s woken up, and he’s thinking it now as he helps Sam into pants that might actually fit, generously donated by one of the teens in the camp. It worries him that they still need to be cinched tight at the waist, and the length makes them look like white mom capri pants, but they’ll have to do for now.

“I’m fine,” Sam says. This is probably the ninetieth time he’s saying it.

Instead of answering, Dean helps him into one of his own shirts, and then covers him with his own jacket. “I don’t like this,” he mutters.

Sam rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother arguing.

Dean’s checked his temperature, and his pain levels, and also the cut on his leg. It seems to be healing nicely, no longer infected, and Sam _is_ doing much better. Dean knows that. But that doesn’t stop him from forcing about a liter of water down Sam (in installments) and giving him around a hundred instructions on what to do if he’s not feeling okay.

“Can you stand?” he asks in the end, buttoning Sam’s jacket for him like he’s a child again.

Sam bats his hands away, and does up the last two buttons himself. Dean’s pleased to note his fingers no longer shake as badly as they used to. “I think so,” Sam tells him, and accepts the hand Dean holds out to him.

It takes a moment, and Sam sways alarmingly on his feet for a second when Dean pulls him up, but then he steadies himself with his hands in Dean’s shirt and Dean’s arm around him, and then they begin the slow, arduous journey to the outside.

It’s mid-morning. Dean sees people going about their business already; Grandma Margie is sorting out the day’s hunting, while Jo’s barking orders to a bunch of teenagers. A few kids run about in a game of catch, and some of their parents call out greetings to Dean as he passes by.

“It’s nice,” Sam says, looking around in wonder. “Real nice.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Good people.”

“And they all listen to you?” Sam asks, awe shining through in his voice.

“Well, they listened to Bobby,” Dean says, brushing it off. To this day he thinks it’s only a matter of time before they replace him with someone older, more competent. It hasn’t been long since Bobby’s been gone, and they’re probably just seeing how badly Dean does before deciding who to replace him with.

“Hey,” comes Jo’s voice, and Dean looks up to find her making her way over to the two of them. He pauses, both to give Sam a moment to rest and to let Jo catch up.

“Hey,” he says when she’s close enough.

“Hello,” Sam greets.

“Good to see you,” Jo tells Dean.

“Told you,” Sam says, and smiles.

“So you did,” Jo concedes. “Breakfast? Margie saved some for you guys.”

“Sounds great,” Dean says.

True to Jo’s word, Margie has indeed saved a helping of eggs for him, and some broth for Sam. Dean helps him sit on one of the makeshift tables, and then takes the seat next to him, raising his eyebrows at Jo when she slides in across from them. “Don’t you have children to terrorize?” he asks her.

Sam laughs. Grinning, Dean turns to Jo again to find her looking unamused. “You’re a riot, Winchester,” she says sarcastically.

“He’s not as funny as he thinks he is,” Sam confides in her.

She quirks a smile at him. “I’ve noticed.”

“You’re not either,” Dean grumbles at Sam, who offers him a sunny smile before turning to his food.

Dean barely tastes his breakfast even as he’s eating it. Jo keeps up conversation with Sam, and both of them seem to be getting along just fine, but Dean hasn’t missed the looks they’re all getting from some of the people in the camp. Brenda’s already been by, frowning but grudgingly agreeing that some fresh air will do Sam good. But there are others, too, muttering as they glance over, and it gives Dean an uneasy feeling in his gut.

“We’re bein’ watched,” he mutters, interrupting the story Jo’s telling Sam.

“I know,” she replies, not looking bothered.

“Why?” Sam asks, curious.

“‘Cause of you,” she tells him. “Everyone here knew Dean was looking for you, and now you’re here, and, well, it’s something new, isn’t it?”

“Doesn’t look too friendly to me,” Dean observes, glancing around furtively. “Think Brenda blabbed about the meds?”

“What about the meds?” Sam asks.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Jo narrows her eyes at Dean before going back to Sam. “The antibiotics that Brenda’s giving you — that was the last of them in our store. When your course is over, there won’t be any left for anybody else.”

“Couldn’t you get some more?” asks Sam.

Jo shakes her head. “No,” she says, throwing her hair back over her shoulder. “There’s nowhere left to raid, Sam. Hospitals, clinics, all of them are empty now. Whatever we’ve got, we need to be careful with it.”

“Oh.” Sam looks thoughtful, and Dean knows that doesn’t bode well.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself,” he tells Sam quietly. “I don’t give a flying fuck if it was the last of it in the entire fucking world, Sam. I’d still give it all to you.”

“For what it’s worth,” Jo cuts in. “So would I.”

Dean looks up, surprised. “Jo?”

“I lost my mom to infection,” she says, and her voice is a little heavy though her gaze never wavers. “I know how fucking _awful_ it is. I wouldn’t wanna put anyone else through that. If there was even the smallest chance it could save someone, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“So, you get why I did it,” Dean says quietly. “You understand.”

“Of course, I do,” she says, gaze intense on Dean’s. “Who could understand better than me?”

Sam reaches out, and hesitantly puts his hand over Jo’s. She looks down at it, surprised, before looking back up and giving him a small smile. “Thank you,” Sam tells her.

“For what?” she asks. “This is kinda my job. I back up your brother’s stupid decisions, make sure they don’t blow up in his face.”

“Thank you anyway,” Sam says, and smiles too. It seems he sees through her facade as well as Dean does.

“Oh.” Now Jo looks a little self-conscious, which Dean finds absolutely fascinating. “Um. You’re welcome, Sam.”

“Are you _blushing_?” Dean asks, grinning at the two of them.

“Fuck right off,” Jo answers without missing a beat.

“You’re so dumb,” sighs Sam, letting go of Jo’s hand so he can shove at Dean. It’s weak, and Dean barely moves, but it looks like it makes Sam feel better so he lets it go.

“You done with food?” he asks Sam.

Sam nods, pushing his bowl away. To his credit, he’s managed about half of it. “Kinda miss food with actual flavor,” he says.

“Brenda said—” begins Dean.

“Yeah, I know what she said,” Sam interjects. “Just sayin’.”

“That ORT stuff has flavor,” Dean points out.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You try having it, tell me how much you like it.”

“No thanks,” Dean says, grinning. “I’ll pass. ‘Sides, you don’t need to have any more of it, Brenda said.”

“Thank God,” mutters Sam. “Okay, so — what now?”

“Well, about this time I’d usually go see how everyone’s doing, see if there’s any concerns,” Dean tells him.

“You gonna do that?” Sam asks.

Dean looks at Jo’s expression, and then at Sam’s. “Yeah,” he sighs. “‘Cause you two are gonna give me hell if I don’t.”

“Damn right,” Jo mutters.

“Come on,” Dean says, standing and holding a hand out to Sam. “I’ll drop you off at the grandmas’.”

The grandmas are both sitting under the shade of their favorite tree, chatting as they work. Dean and Jo walk Sam over, while Sam hangs on to his brother and watches them with nervousness clear on his face. “It’ll be fine,” Dean whispers to him. “They’ll love you.”

Jo doesn’t look that confident, which Sam notices. “Okay,” he mutters anyway, fingers tightening for just a second in Dean’s shirt.

“Dean,” barks Margie when she sees him, looking up from the deer carcass she’s skinning deftly with her knife. “Finally off your ass, eh?”

“Morning, Margie,” Dean replies, trying his best not to roll his eyes at her. “Morning, Liz,” he adds to the other.

They both ignore him, beady eyes zeroing in on Sam instead. The intensity of their gazes has Sam shrinking into Dean’s side, grip tightening further in Dean’s shirt. “That your brother?” asks Liz, not stopping her knitting for even a second.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says. He offers her a shy little smile.

“Ain’t nobody called me ma’am in ‘bout a decade,” Liz informs him. “Your brother sure as hell hasn’t.”

“I did!” Dean protests. “And you threatened to have Margie skin me!”

“If I recall correctly, boy, your tone was sarcastic,” Margie reminds him.

Sam lets out a little laugh that he covers up as a cough. “Sounds about right,” he mutters to Dean.

“Shut up,” Dean replies, scoffing.

“She’s right,” Jo says.

“Shut _up_.”

“See?” Liz says, pointing the end of her needle at him. “No manners, none. Who raised you, boy? Wolves?”

Sam’s grin widens, much to Dean’s chagrin. “Oh, trust me, if I hadn’t been around my dad, I’d’ve wondered too.”

“Wasn’t your father a Marine?” Margie asks.

Sam nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dean waits for Margie to raise her knife and point it at Sam, tell him off the same way she’d done to him. That does not happen. Instead, to his surprise, Margie’s expression softens a little, and then she says, “Can’t’ve been easy, without your mama around.”

“I didn’t know her,” Sam answers softly. “I was very young when she… you know. Passed.” He looks up at Dean, gives him a smile that almost has Dean weak at the knees. “Dean kinda raised me after that. Dad hadta be away from home a lot, so it was just the two of us, and Dean looked after me.”

Margie and Liz’s eyes swivel to Dean, where they remain for a length of time that has him squirming in his boots. Then Liz says, “Wait, _you_ raised this boy?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

“I don’t believe it,” declares Margie.

“Well, spend some time with him and you might change your mind,” Dean says. “Look, I got work to do, all right? Think you can look after Sammy while I’m gone?”

“As long as he don’t wander off,” Liz says after a pause.

“Not gonna be a problem,” Sam tells them with a wry grin.

“Cool,” says Dean, and helps Sam sit on the ground between the two grandmas, his back to the tree trunk. “You good, Sammy?”

Sam moves until he’s comfortable and then smiles up at Dean, who’s kneeling in front of him. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

Dean nods, hands him his canteen. “Here, keep drinkin’ this. Margie, you make sure he’s drinking that.”

Margie nods, already back to her deer carcass.

“Stay in the shade,” Dean instructs. “Don’t want you overheating.”

“Dean,” Sam begins.

“I _know_ you’re not a child,” Dean tells him before Sam can finish. “Shut up. I’ll come get you in a bit, okay? You need something, you let Margie or Liz know, okay, and they’ll yell for me or get someone to come get me.”

“Got it,” Sam says, and slowly untangles his fingers from Dean’s shirt. It leaves behind a wrinkled patch of cloth, but Dean can’t bring himself to care.

“See you in a bit, Sammy,” he says, and smiles.

Sam smiles back, no snark for once, and nods. “Yeah,” he says.

Dean gets to his feet. “Leavin’ him with you,” he reminds Margie and Liz.

“We’ll keep an eye,” Liz says.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, but hesitates anyway. Jo, sensing his conflict, grabs him by the arm and all but marches him off.

“Thought you’d never leave,” she says once they’re a safe distance anyway.

“Yeah,” Dean admits. He turns around for a look, and sees Sam answer something Margie’s asking. “I didn’t think it’d be that hard.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jo assures him. “I think Margie and Liz like him. And you know they don’t like just about anyone.”

“Well, that’s how Sam is,” Dean grumbles. “Five minutes and he’ll have you eatin’ out of the palm of his hand.”

Jo laughs. It’s such an unexpected sound that it makes Dean pause for a moment. “Yeah, he seems sweet,” she says.

“See?” Dean says, pointing at her. “You adore him too!”

“Well, I mean.” Jo shrugs. “Nice to see a new face. Plus, he’s a lot nicer than _you_.”

“You wound me,” sighs Dean. “Truly, you break my heart.”

“Oh, shut up,” Jo dismisses.

The conversation comes to a halt when they see Brenda come out of the store, looking pissed. Dean and Jo stops, and Dean says, “Whoa, Brenda. Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“No one,” Brenda grinds out, glaring at Dean.

“Sure,” Dean says slowly. “Suuuuure. Call me a dumbass, maybe, but I get the feeling this might be ‘bout the cephalosporin.”

Brenda scoffs. “Nah, nothing to do with that.”

“Brenda,” Jo says, a little stern. That tone of voice is weird from her, always has been — not just because she doesn’t look anything close to strict, but also because it’s always a painful reminder that she’s Ellen’s daughter.

Brenda sighs, giving in. “Kyle came back hurt this morning,” she reports, referring to one of the hunters. “Doesn’t look too bad, but there’s a risk of infection.”

“Keep it clean, then, he should be fine,” Dean suggests, though his stomach sinks.

“Well, thank you, Dr. Winchester, I’ll keep that in mind,” Brenda snarks.

“ _Brenda_ ,” Jo repeats.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Guess I’m just stressed.”

“You still think it was a waste giving it to Sam,” Dean realizes, lowering his voice. “Don’t you, Brenda?”

“No!” Brenda says at once, but Dean’s not convinced. Going by Jo’s frown, she’s not either. “No, I swear. Sam’s doing much better, and I’m honestly glad he is, Dean. I’m glad the antibiotics worked.”

“But?” Dean prompts.

“But nothing,” Brenda says. “Like I said. Just stressed. Besides, I’m pretty sure Kyle will be fine.”

“Keep us updated,” Jo tells her, and subtly tugs on Dean’s sleeve. “That wasn’t good,” she mutters as they keep on walking.

“Yeah, no shit,” Dean sighs. “Kyle, huh?”

“Let’s go see him,” Jo suggests. “See how bad it is.”

They enter Kyle’s place to find him lying on his bed, leg propped up on a cushion. Jacob and Rob are sitting next to him, keeping him company. “Hey,” Dean says as he enters. “Heard you got hurt.”

“Ah, Chief, it’s nothing,” Kyle tells him. “Just a bad cut.” He points to his leg, and both Jo and Dean lean in for a closer look.

It’s a jagged cut about five inches long on Kyle’s shin. Brenda has already cleaned it up and stitched it closed, but it’s exposed to the air, and Jo frowns. “Shouldn’t there be a bandage or something?”

“Brenda’s gone to get gauze,” reports Rob. “Says she’ll be back in a bit with antibiotics and stuff. She’s concerned about infection, you know.”

“Ah, I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Dean says bracingly. “What happened, anyway?”

Jacob snorts. “Dumbass tripped and fell on a branch.”

“Seriously?” Jo asks, incredulous.

“I didn’t _see_ it!” Kyle says heatedly. “And besides, I was payin’ attention to the rabbit — you know, the thing we were out there to hunt!”

“Almost became a shish kebab yourself,” jokes Rob.

“You’ll be fine,” Dean says, with a tight smile. “Be back up on your feet in no time. Though this keeps up I might have to put you up with Liz,” he adds.

Kyle groans, while Rob and Jacob burst out laughing. “Don’t do that, Chief,” he says, very close to whining. “You know I’m a good hunter!”

“Who trips and falls?” Jacob points out, cackling.

“Shut the fuck up,” Kyle grumbles.

“Well, we’ll leave you boys to it,” Jo says. “C’mon, Dean.” She waits until they’re outside to say, “There’s a risk, Dean. Brenda’s right to be worried.”

“I know, I know,” Dean says. “But what am I supposed to do, Jo?”

“Hope it doesn’t come down to him needing the cephalo,” Jo tells him.

“We’ve got amoxclav, we’ve got metro,” Dean begins, but Jo cuts him off.

“Yeah, yeah I know, Dean,” she says. “But you know how it is. Infection spreads fast. Amoxclav and metro might not help much, especially if the infection’s bad.”

“Let’s see what happens,” Dean murmurs.

Jo nods. “Yeah,” she says shortly.

“Anything else I gotta look at?” he asks her. This entire conversation has him feeling on edge, and for some reason, he’s feeling antsy. He wants to get back to Sam, see how his little brother’s doing.

Jo shakes her head. “Nah, don’t think so. Inventory’s fine, I went over it this morning with Hank and Lola.”

“Right, okay,” Dean says, and stuffs his hands in his pocket. “Am I dismissed, ma’am?”

She rolls her eyes. “Go, Dean.”

He grins at her, flashes her a thumbs-up, and practically runs off before she has the chance to remember something she might’ve forgotten to mention.

Sam’s sitting in the same position that Dean left him in. He seems fine, and to Dean’s surprise he’s chatting away with Liz and Margie, canteen cradled in his hands. What’s even more astonishing is the smile on Liz’s face as she talks to Sam, or the fact that Margie is actually laughing.

“Hey,” he greets, nearing the little group. “How’s it goin’?”

“Hey!” Sam’s smile goes up by about a thousand watts when he sees Dean.

“You’re not bothering these sweet old ladies, are ya, Sammy?” Dean asks, and dodges Margie’s ensuing swat.

“He’s a delight,” Liz reports.

“Still don’t think you raised him,” Margie adds. “No way you coulda raised this polite little fella.”

Sam grins smugly up at Dean from where he’s ensconced in between the two grandmas. _Little shit_ , Dean mouths at him, and then says out loud, “You wound me, Margie.”

“Everyone wounds ya,” Margie dismisses. “Your lines ain’t gonna work on me, Dean.”

“But Sam’s did?” Dean asks incredulously.

“He’s a nice young man,” Liz says.

“So am I!”

Margie and Liz look at each other, and then at Dean. “Naw,” they say in perfect unison, and Sam laughs, clearly delighted.

“Well,” Dean says, disgruntled. “Hate to break up this little party, but—” He holds his hand out to Sam. “I’m done for this morning. Sammy, c’mon.”

“Aw, can’t I stay?” Sam asks, to Dean’s surprise. “I feel okay, and I’m drinking my water, and Margie and Liz are really nice!”

Dean has never in his life heard those words used to describe the two century-old crones before him, but the way they smile down at his brother almost has him doubting himself. They look more like the sweet little grandmas they should be, and less like the Big Bad Wolf in grandma’s clothing that he’s come to expect from them.

“Let him stay,” Margie says.

“You stay too!” Sam implores. “You said you’re done for today, right?”

Dean looks at Liz, and then at Margie. Lots of sharp things around. He’d be in stabbing range of them, with nothing to defend himself with should they take offence to something he said.

Then again, they really seem to like Sam. And if worst comes to worst, Dean can always hide behind Sam’s body. Or try, considering how small Sam is right now.

Oh, how the mighty fall. He’s literally considering using his sick little brother’s body as a shield against two women well over ninety.

“Dean?” Sam says again, and fuck, there are those eyes.

“Fine,” he says in the end, and gingerly sits down next to Sam, not taking his eyes off Margie’s knife or Liz’s needles even for a second. The moment he’s comfortable Sam leans into his side, hand coming up to grab at this shirt, and Dean forgets his apprehension immediately when he sees how happy Sam looks.

“They kill me, I’ll blame you,” he whispers anyway, because it has to be said.

Sam grins at him. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he reassures Dean.

* * *

The morning has been so pleasant that it comes as a shock when Jo arrives at Dean’s place later on that evening, face set in a grim expression. “What is it?” Dean asks, brain coming up with about a million things that could’ve gone wrong in the few hours he’s been here with Sam.

“It’s Kyle,” Jo says, sitting down next to Dean. She waves hi to Sam, who’s lying with his head in Dean’s lap.

“What about him?” Dean asks, at the same time that Sam says, “Who’s Kyle?”

“One of our hunters,” Jo tells Sam, and then looks up at Dean. “It’s infected, Dean. He’s developed a fever, and the wound looks — well, fucking disgusting, to be honest.”

“Fuck,” curses Dean with a vehemence that visibly startles his brother.

“Dean?” Sam questions, and struggles to sit up.

“Sam, it’s fine,” Dean says, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. “Lie down, man, it’s fine—”

“Clearly not!” Sam retorts, clawing to an upright position and nearly ripping Dean’s shirt off him in the process. “Does Kyle need the cephalosporins?” he asks Jo.

She hesitates, and then nods. “Yeah. Rate he’s progressing, amoxclav and metro won’t do shit for him.”

“Fuck,” Dean says again, more heavily this time. “How’s it looking?”

“Not good,” Jo tells him. “Not good at all, Dean. He’ll be lucky to have a couple days.”

“Can he have the rest of my course?” Sam asks. “Would that help?”

“Sam, _no_ ,” Dean says at once. “No way, man.”

“Dean, he’s dying!” Sam points out. “And I feel okay, so if he can have it—”

“Sam, you know this shit better than me, man! You gotta complete your course if you wanna get better,” Dean reminds him angrily. “I’m not lettin’ you die just ‘cause you got some stupid martyr complex—”

“It’s not a martyr complex, Dean!” Sam pauses, swallows. “I don’t want someone else to die if I can help—”

“Well, you can’t,” Dean cuts in harshly.

“Normally I’d hate to agree with Dean,” Jo says, and they both turn to look at her. “But he’s right, Sam. You’ve only got a couple days of your course left. It won’t be enough to save Kyle.”

“So, what, he’s just supposed to die?” Sam demands. He turns to Dean, eyes pleading. “Dean!”

“Sam,” sighs Dean, and then stops. He doesn’t know what to say. Sam’s eyes are wide and shiny, and Dean wants nothing more than to tell him that Kyle will be fine, but he knows that’s a lie that Sam will never buy. He also doesn’t want to say out loud that yes, Kyle is just going to die.

“I’m sorry,” Jo says quietly.

Dean lets out a rough, mirthless laugh. “For what?”

She shrugs. “This entire situation. It’s crap.”

“Well, that’s one way to put it,” Dean mutters.

Sam looks between the two of them, outrage clear on his face. “What, that’s it?” he asks, with a forcefulness to his tone that reminds Dean of the arguments his brother used to have with John. “That’s _it_? What, you’re just gonna let him die?”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Dean asks.

“There’s nothing we _can_ do,” Jo adds. She sighs. “Brenda is gonna be pissed, dude.”

“Beyond pissed,” Dean corrects heavily. “Didn’t she and Kyle have a thing?”

“Well, they broke up,” Jo says.

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t care anymore,” Dean points out.

Before Jo or Sam can reply, the door to Dean’s shack slams open and Brenda herself storms in, hair flying out of her messy bun and her eyes blazing. “Thanks to your little stunt with the cephalo,” she snarls at Dean, “Kyle’s going to die. I hope you’re fucking happy, Dean.”

“Watch it!” Jo snaps, getting to her feet.

“What else was I supposed to have done?” Dean demands, also standing. He moves his body subtly so that Sam’s hidden from Brenda’s view. He doesn’t know why, but he has the sudden feeling that she wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him somehow.

“If you’d been able to compartmentalize,” Brenda begins.

“Compartmentalize?” Dean repeats incredulously. “What, let my kid brother die so that your little boy toy can live?”

“Dean, shut up,” Jo says sharply. “Brenda, this is a pointless argument. The cephalo’s gone. No point crying over spilt milk.”

“ _You_ tell me what I should do, then,” Brenda says, nearly spitting in her rage. Her face is ruddy, hands curled into tight fists, and Dean shifts so that Sam is entirely covered by his body.

“Give him what you _do_ have,” Jo instructs Brenda. “No harm in trying.”

“ _No harm in trying_?” Brenda repeats. “Give him amoxclav and metro and let those run out too? Are you two fucking _insane_?” She glares at Jo, and then at Dean. “I’m done,” she declares, and turns to leave. “Fucking incompetents running this place,” is her parting barb, heard clearly just before she slams the door so hard Dean hears it splinter.

“Fuck,” Dean says, and sits down heavily. Without thinking about it he reaches out and pulls Sam into his arms, ignoring Sam’s surprised “Oof!”

“Fuck, indeed,” says Jo in resignation.

“Kyle’s gonna die,” Dean predicts.

“Well, we knew,” Jo replies with a sigh. “You know Brenda’s gonna tell everyone he died ‘cause of you.”

“That’s not true,” Dean says at once, heart sinking. Sam’s hand is in his shirt again; it tightens to the point his little brother’s knuckles are nearly white.

“They won’t believe her, will they?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know,” Jo says honestly. “I don’t know, Sam. Things have been tense around here lately. We’ve lost a lot of people, and we’re running out of supplies, and we don’t know where to get any more from. Something like this… people won’t be happy.”

“It wasn’t a waste,” Dean says, arm gripping Sam’s shoulders tighter. “It _wasn’t_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jo says softly. “But that’s what they’ll think. Especially Kyle. He’s been here a long time, you know. People care more about him than they do about Sam.”

“What the fuck do we do, then?” Dean asks, tone harsher than he intended.

There’s a pause. Jo’s face shines in the light of Dean’s lantern, highlighting the helplessness in her expression perfectly. Dean watches as she swallows, and then closes her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says in the end. “I don’t know, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> each comment adds an additional five years to the elderly lesbians' lifespans.


	6. Our Making, Our Undoing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's decision to use up all the antibiotics on Sam comes back to bite him in the ass, and the boys go on the run. Sam has a Disney princess moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so glad you all enjoyed the elderly lesbians as much as i did writing them! it made me so happy to see all your comments, thank you all so much! <3
> 
> title is from a quote by anthony t. hincks:  
> "the world is of our making and of our undoing.”

Sam wakes to the feeling of rough hands on his face. “Sammy, kid, come on,” Dean’s saying, and Sam blinks, looking up groggily at his brother.

“Dean? What’s going on?”

“Gotta get up, kiddo,” Dean says, putting a hand under Sam’s back and helping him sit up. “C’mon, Sammy—”

Sam rubs at his eyes, waiting until they adjust to the darkness in the room. Dean’s lantern is almost out, but in its dying light he can see that the room is a mess. Dean’s throwing clothes into a canvas bag, and then weapons on top of it.

“What’s going on?” Sam asks again.

Dean hands him the canteen. “Drink,” he tells Sam shortly. He waits till Sam’s taken a few sips before saying, “Sam, listen to me.”

“What?”

Dean takes the canteen and tosses it into his bag too, and then kneels down so that he’s level with Sam. He reaches out, puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, and says, “We gotta go.”

“Go?” Sam repeats, confused. “Where?”

The light flickers, casting shadows over Dean’s face. “Kyle’s not gonna make it,” he tells Sam, voice low. “And — things are gonna go to crap, Sammy. It’s best we leave before then.”

“But—” Sam struggles to process this. “Dean, this is your _home_ , and they — won’t they believe you?”

Dean sighs, and takes one hand off Sam’s shoulder so that he can run it through his too-long hair. “I don’t know,” he admits. “You saw how Brenda was earlier. I won’t be surprised to find out she’s already been talkin’, Sammy. And when Kyle dies… people are gonna be angry.”

“Where would we even go?” Sam asks, uneasy.

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean answers with more confidence than Sam thinks he feels.

“I can barely walk,” Sam reminds him, putting his hands around Dean’s wrists.

“I’ll carry you if I have to, Sammy.” Dean’s determination is clear. “But we gotta hurry, okay? I don’t want this to be any harder than it has to be.”

“What about Jo?” Sam asks, finally accepting what’s happening.

“Jo will be fine,” Dean answers shortly, letting go of Sam and wrapping a jacket around him. “She’s done nothing wrong.”

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s chest, stopping him. “Neither have you,” he says softly.

Dean gives him a small smile, barely visible in the dying light, and then helps him to his feet. “C’mon,” he says, lifting his canvas bag with his free hand. “Gotta be quick, okay?”

“Wait,” Sam says quickly. “Dean, if we’re leaving — the rest of the cephalo—”

Dean stops again, and squeezes Sam’s fingers in his. “It’s too late for Kyle,” he tells Sam softly, regretfully. “It won’t do anything. Besides — I already stole the rest of it for you. And some painkillers, and other stuff,” he adds.

“When?” Sam asks, surprised.

“You were asleep,” Dean tells him.

“You left?”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says at once, misinterpreting Sam’s question. “I’m sorry, but I had to—”

“It’s fine,” Sam says hurriedly, squeezing Dean’s hand back. “I just… didn’t notice.”

Dean gives him a tight smile. “You were pretty out of it,” he tells Sam. “Come on now, kid. Let’s move.”

“Okay,” Sam whispers, and wills all of his strength to keep himself upright, to keep his legs working for as long as he can.

He’s already out of breath by the time they make it to the east border, near the firewood stack where he’d been found. Going by the tense expression on Dean’s face, his brother has noticed, but he doesn’t say anything. They can’t afford to lose speed now.

They’ve only taken a few steps beyond the fence when a cry rings out, sharp in the silent night. Dean stops, and the two of them turn. A second later, someone curses, loud and angry, and Dean’s grip on Sam’s hand tightens. “Come on,” he whispers.

They continue. It’s a full moon night and the light is enough to see by, though Dean’s also packed a flashlight as a precaution. Sam does his best to keep up with Dean, who he knows is holding himself back so that Sam won’t get tired. He knows what the cry and the curse mean, and it makes a vice tighten around his heart.

Kyle’s dead.

Sam had last traveled through this forest while feverish and sick, and he barely remembers any of it now. Of course, it makes a difference that it had been day then, and it's night now. Still, he knows there are traps, and he’s terrified of stepping in one, of the noise it’ll make, the way it’ll ruin their escape. “Dean,” he wheezes out, free hand coming up to rub at his chest. “Dean, wait—”

Dean stops at once. “What is it?” he asks, turning to look at Sam with concern in his eyes. “Sammy, you all right?”

Sam nods, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Traps,” he pants. “Bear traps—”

“I know where they are,” Dean tells him. “Set ‘em myself—”

“Don’t wanna step in one,” Sam tells him. His throat is dry again thanks to the exertion, and his heart is beating so fast in his chest it’s almost painful.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Dean says, and a second later Sam feels Dean’s arms around him.

“What are you—” he begins, but before he can finish he’s lifted bodily into Dean’s arms. “Dean!”

“Sorry, I just gotta—” Dean continues his journey, now with Sam cradled close to his body. “You’re outta breath, and you’re right ‘bout the traps, and I know you don’t like it, but—”

He doesn’t. He’s not a baby to be carried around, but he’s also painfully aware of how weak he still is, and how it really is safer this way. “It’s fine,” he tells Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck, “but just so you know, fuck you.”

Dean laughs, a little breathless, and says, “Always knew you were a Disney princess, Sammy.”

“Fuck you,” Sam tells him again, but he can’t help the smile on his face.

They make their way through undergrowth and low-hanging branches, Dean ducking every now and then to avoid being hit in the face. Carrying Sam seems to be no extra effort for him, which is testament both to how much stronger he’s gotten, and how much weight Sam’s lost. Not for the first time Sam wishes he were more useful, but it is what it is, and they’re going to have to work with what they’ve got.

Dean finally stops an hour later, gently letting Sam down next to a tree that Sam can lean against. He digs his canteen out of his bag and takes a few sips before offering it to Sam, who accepts it gratefully. “You okay?” he asks Dean when he’s done.

Dean nods, his skin looking white in the moonlight. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, handing the canteen back. “Dude, where are we?” There are only trees, far as he can see. Which, in this light, isn’t much.

“There’s a cabin nearby,” Dean tells Sam, putting the canteen back in his bag. “Jo and I found it on a recon once. We didn’t tell anybody about it. I think it’s safe to rest there for the night.”

“You sure no one else knows about it?” Sam asks.

Dean nods. “Yeah. Mine and Jo’s little secret.”

That makes Sam grin. “A secret hideout, huh?” he teases.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Hilarious,” he scoffs. “Look, it was right after we lost Ellen, and then Bobby. It was nice to have a place where we could just grieve, where we wouldn’t have to be strong in front of people. That’s all it is.”

“Uh huh,” says Sam, still grinning. “Recon. That what you guys call it?”

“Bitch,” Dean says. “That’s what you are. A little bitch who thinks he’s hilarious.”

“I _am_ hilarious,” Sam says.

“Nope,” Dean says, and then grows serious again. “Come on, Sam. It’s only a little distance away. Think you could walk?”

“Yeah,” Sam says at once. He’s really not a fan of being carried around like a damsel in distress, and has no wish to suffer that particular indignity any longer. “Yeah, Dean.”

“Good,” Dean says shortly, and hefts his back higher up on his shoulder. “Let’s go, then.” He holds his hand out, and Sam takes it.

Ten minutes later they’re at the cabin. It’s barely any bigger than Dean’s shack back at the camp, and it looks deserted, but when they enter there’s a lantern inside that Dean lights. There’s only one door and one window, and Dean covers both with tarp that was rolled up inside the cabin. “Keeps the light in,” he explains to Sam, who nods.

The place is dusty, Sam notes, looking around in the lamplight. There’s a pallet in the corner, and a gun propped up in another along with a box of ammo. Dean goes to it at once, while Sam sits down on the pallet, catching his breath. He watches Dean check the gun, and asks, “That yours?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Left it in here just in case.”

“Smart,” says Sam, and Dean gives him a small grin.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. He puts the box of ammo in his bag and takes his canteen out, handing it to Sam. “You all right?”

Sam nods. “Yeah,” he says. “What do we do now?”

Dean sits down next to Sam, their shoulders touching. “We rest tonight,” he tells Sam. “Tomorrow we figure out where to go. How’s your leg?”

“Okay,” Sam tells him. The cut’s throbbing, but it’s tolerable. “I’ll manage.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

“Three,” Sam answers honestly. Dean reaches for his bag, presumably to grab Sam some painkillers, but Sam stops him with a hand on his wrist. “I’m fine,” he assures Dean. “If I need them, I’ll let you know.”

“Promise?” Dean asks, uncertain.

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

They split some of the rabbit meat Dean sneaked along in his bag, wrapped in an old shirt. It’s kind of gross, but Sam doesn’t complain, dutifully chewing the cold meat and swallowing. They have a few sips of water each to wash it down afterwards, and then Dean lies down on the pallet, outstretching an arm for Sam.

Sam joins him, squeezing into the space between Dean and the wall, where Dean wants him. He lies down with his head on Dean’s arm, and curls into his side, hand going automatically to Dean’s shirt. It’s a little childish, he knows, but there’s an indescribable feeling of security in the small gesture, in feeling Dean right next to him and knowing that he’s safe. That Dean won’t be torn from his grip again. He hasn’t had a single nightmare about it since he’s been back with his brother, but the fear is still not that easy to let go of.

Dean covers Sam’s hand with his free one and squeezes once before letting go. “I’m gonna keep you safe, okay?” he promises, turning his head so that their foreheads touch. “Okay, Sammy?”

“I know,” Sam whispers. “I know you will.”

“We’ll be all right,” Dean says. “You and me against the world, right?”

Sam smiles. “Yeah.”

Dean smiles back, and kisses Sam’s forehead lightly before turning his head back. “Get some sleep, kiddo.”

“‘Night, Dean,” Sam answers, pressing his face into Dean’s neck. The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is the reassuring beat of Dean’s heart just under his palm.

* * *

Sam wakes barely two hours later, to the sound of rustling. Immediately alert, he raises his head, narrowing his eyes and looking around for the source. “Dean,” he hisses, hand on Dean’s chest shaking him. “Dean, wake up—”

Dean jolts awake, one hand flying to cover Sam’s on his chest. “Sammy, you all right?” he asks at once, all signs of sleep gone.

“I hear something,” Sam whispers.

Both of them go still. There is the sound of twigs cracking, and then the unmistakable noise of a person crashing through trees. Dean’s hand inches towards his gun, lying a couple feet away from where they’d been sleeping.

Footsteps. Sam tenses, letting go of Dean’s shirt to give his brother more freedom of movement. Dean gives him an intense, indecipherable look, and then moves so that he’s between Sam and the door. “Knife under the pillow,” he mouths to Sam before turning back to the door.

Sam reaches under it, fingers closing around the handle of his brother’s hunting knife. His own Swiss Army knife, which has somehow survived all these years, is tucked in his pocket, but won’t be much use in self-defense.

A figure appears in the doorway and immediately Dean cocks his gun, snarling, “Freeze!”

“Whoa! Relax!” It’s Jo, and her voice has Dean letting out an audible sigh of relief.

“Fuck,” he swears, flicking the safety back on and putting his gun down. “I almost shot you, Harvelle!”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” she retorts, and grins at them. “Hi, Sam.”

“Hi,” Sam says, lowering his knife. “How come you’re here?”

“Figured I’d find you here,” she answers, sitting down cross-legged next to the pallet. “You guys okay?”

Dean nods. “Fine,” he says shortly. “How are things back at camp?”

Her smile fades. “Well, Kyle died, as I’m sure you know,” she answers. Even though he’d known too, the confirmation makes Sam’s heart squeeze with something that feels horribly like guilt. “Brenda’s already started spreading stories about how it’s all your fault,” Jo continues.

“They lookin’ for us?” Dean asks.

“Not yet,” Jo says. “They don’t know you’re gone, they think you’re still in your hut. Hank’s been cursing you out, saying you won’t even show up to see Kyle.”

“That didn’t tip ‘em off?” Dean sounds surprised. “That I didn’t come?”

“Well, Margie and Liz looked suspicious, but Brenda’s already got the rest of ‘em believing you’re a piece of shit. Which you are,” Jo adds with a lop-sided grin, “but only ‘cause you cheat at poker.”

“I don’t cheat, you just suck,” Dean retorts at once. The joke has its intended effect; Dean’s shoulders relax a little.

“Whatever, cheater,” says Jo, grin widening. Then she says, serious once more, “So what now?”

“I don’t know,” Dean tells her.

“We’ll figure it out,” Sam adds. “What about you?”

“Me?” Jo blinks. “Oh. I’m staying.”

Dean smiles humorlessly. “Thought you would.”

“You don’t agree?” she asks.

“I actually do,” Dean says. “You always were better at it than I was, man. And it’s not you they hate, so — you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll hold down the fort, keep ‘em off your trail for as long as I can,” Jo replies. “And Dean? Thanks.”

“Just the truth,” Dean answers.

“Thank you too,” Sam says, shifting closer to Dean. He grabs Dean’s shirt again. It should make him self-conscious, doing that in front of Jo, but something about her puts him at ease. She already feels like a friend even though he’s only known her a couple days. “You don’t have to do all this for us.”

“Dean’s family,” Jo tells him with a little smile, “which means you are too. I owe him.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Dean tells her. “You know that, right?”

“Nah, I do,” she counters. “You’re the reason I didn’t lose my shit after Mom.”

Dean considers this, and then says, “Okay. We’re even now, then.”

“Even,” Jo repeats. “Listen, I can’t stay long, they’ll get suspicious, but, uh—” She opens the bag she’s got slung across her torso. “I got you guys food and some supplies. All in here.” She pats it, closes it again, and then takes it off, holding it out to Dean. “Should last you a while.”

Dean takes it. “Thanks.”

She nods, and then stands. “Yeah.”

Dean stands too, and holds his hand out for Sam, who helps himself to his feet. “I really liked meeting you,” he tells Jo. “I wish we could’ve hung out more.”

She smiles at him, and wraps her arms around him in a brief hug. “Me too. You’re a good one, Sam. Much better’n your brother,” she adds with a smirk.

“I’ve been told, yes,” Sam answers with a smirk of his own.

“Little shit,” Dean says, and then wraps Jo in a hug. “You take care, Joanna Beth.”

“You too, Winchester,” she replies.

They separate. Sam notes with interest how Jo’s looking anywhere but at Dean, even as Dean’s looking right at her. Then Dean says, “I’ll see you around, Jo.”

She grins, wistful. “Yeah. Been a ride, huh?”

“Ain’t over yet,” Dean points out. “Long road.”

“Long road,” she repeats, and bumps fists with Dean before giving Sam one last hug. Then, just as suddenly as she’d come, she’s gone.

Dean remains watching the doorway for a while after she’s left, and Sam keeps his eyes on his brother. Dean looks sad, mouth thin and eyes downcast, and Sam knocks his shoulder into him, and then reaches out to squeeze his wrist. “She’ll be all right,” he says softly.

Dean turns, gives Sam a sad smile. “Yeah,” he says. “C’mon, let’s get back to bed, Sam. We gotta be up early, and we’re gonna need all the rest we can get.” He turns the lantern down again and gets into bed, making space for Sam.

They lie quietly for a few minutes, and then Sam whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“For?” asks Dean, turning to look at Sam.

“You having to leave,” Sam replies. “I know it was kinda like home for you, and you’re gonna miss Jo—”

“Yeah, I am gonna miss her,” Dean interrupts, “but you know what, Sam? That’s okay. I always knew we weren’t gonna stick with each other forever, you know? She’s got her thing; I’ve got mine.”

“What’s your thing?” Sam asks, fingers playing absently with the amulet around Dean’s neck.

Dean grins. “You, Sammy. What else? That place wasn’t home for me, man. I know I was there a while, but that don’t make it home. _You_ weren’t there, Sam.”

“Oh.” Sam pauses, feeling unexpectedly choked up. “But you had Bobby—”

“Yeah, I loved the old man,” Dean cuts in. “But he wasn’t home either. You’re my home, Sammy. Always have been. ‘S not a place, not for me. It’s wherever I’m with you.”

Sam raises himself up on one elbow, watching Dean’s face. His brother looks sincere enough, eyes holding Sam’s gaze, and Sam looks at him for a few long seconds. Then he says, “What happened to no chick-flick moments?”

“Ah, shut up,” says Dean, reaching out to wrap an arm around Sam’s neck and pull him in. “Just this once you get a pass.”

“You always give me a pass,” Sam reminds him, laughing. He moves Dean’s amulet out of the way and then puts his head down on Dean’s chest, just over his heart. “You always act like you’re macho and manly as hell but you let me do whatever I want.”

“‘Cause it’s _you_ , idiot,” Dean says, like it’s obvious. “Think I’d let just about anyone cuddle me like this?”

“I’m not _cuddling_ ,” Sam retorts, even though he is.

“Sure, Samantha,” says Dean with a snort. A second later, Sam feels rough fingers in his hair. “You gonna go to sleep now, or you gonna keep talking my ear off till sunrise?”

“Whatever,” is Sam’s witty retort. He closes his eyes, counts Dean’s heartbeat for a few seconds, steady and reassuring just under his ear. Then, so quiet he wonders if Dean will even hear, “You’re my home too, Dean.”

“I know,” says Dean at once, sounding warm and content. He tugs lightly at Sam’s hair. “Sleep now, Sam. Come on.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam whispers.

* * *

They share some of the food Jo got them for breakfast. Few sips of water. Sam takes a painkiller, and sits still as Dean injects him with the antibiotic. He feels better this morning, stronger than he has in a while. Dean checks his leg — cut’s healing well, scabbing over nicely. No pus, no inflammation.

“Good to go?” Dean asks once he’s done changing the bandage for Sam.

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

The forest is just waking up when the two of them set out again. Sam’s walking on his own, slow but sure, and Dean’s staying within arm’s reach just in case. Both of them are armed with guns, though Sam hopes they don’t have to use them.

“You know your way around this place,” Sam notes, after half an hour of walking during which Dean hasn’t used a map even once.

“Yeah,” Dean answers. “Ran ‘bout a billion missions in these areas. No one knows this place better than I do, except maybe Jo.”

“You know, she likes you,” Sam says, thinking back to the way she’d looked last night when they’d been saying goodbye.

“I know,” Dean answers shortly, surprising Sam.

“You know?”

His brother nods. “Yeah.”

“And you never—”

“No,” Dean says. “Like I told you, it wouldn't have worked. We’re both too damn alike, and too damn messed up.”

“You said it wouldn’t have been fair to her ‘cause you were always thinking about looking for me,” Sam reminds Dean. “Well, now I’m here. What now?”

“Now we’re leaving, that’s what,” Dean says.

“And if we weren’t?” Sam presses.

“I don’t know,” Dean says after a moment of thought. “There’s a lot of things that could’ve gone wrong, Sam. I like her, I do, but I mean. I guess more like as if she was my kid sister.”

“That’s definitely not how she looked at you,” Sam points out.

“I know,” Dean says again, and smiles wistfully. “She’ll grow out of it, though. Find someone better for her.”

“I hope so,” Sam says, and means it. “She’s really nice. She deserves to be happy. You do too,” he adds a second later.

“I _am_ happy,” Dean tells him. “I got you, Sam. Don’t really need anyone else.”

Sam smiles. “Me and you against the world, huh.”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Which is what might actually be happening.”

“Any idea where we’re headed?” Sam asks.

“I was thinking Colorado, actually,” Dean tells him. “That air base where I stayed.”

“Thought you said everyone’s dead there.”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be documents and stuff, right?” Dean says. “Something that could point us in some direction. There’s gotta be more people lookin’ for a cure, Sam. Not just those crazy nuts.”

“And if there aren’t?” Sam asks quietly.

Dean stops, turns to look at Sam. “Then you an’ me, we run,” he says. The firmness of his tone indicates he’s been thinking about this for some time. “We go somewhere far, _far_ away, and we make our own home. Somewhere no one’s ever gonna find us.”

“Like where?” asks Sam curiously.

Dean shrugs. “Dunno. Canada. Alaska. Hell, let’s take a boat across the Atlantic, see how the rest of the world’s doin’. I don’t know, Sam. Don’t particularly care.”

“And if I’m the only chance there is at stopping all of this?” Sam asks.

“We talked about this,” Dean says, and now he looks exasperated. “Whatever happens, you’re not gonna let those freaks experiment on you.”

Sam takes in a deep breath, prepares to argue. But one look at his brother’s face and he deflates. Behind Dean’s defiance, there’s fear, shimmering just under the surface, and Sam can see it reflected in his eyes. They’re both afraid. Five years, and they’ve only just found each other again. The last thing Sam wants is to be away from Dean, and somehow he doubts that the ‘crazy nuts’ would be too interested in his utterly normal-blooded brother.

So he nods, and gives Dean a reassuring smile, and tries not to feel like the most selfish person on the planet as he follows after Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!


	7. Got a Shitstorm Here, What's Up?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While separated from Sam on a run, Dean finds himself getting a bit too well-acquainted with the people who are hunting Sam down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lil bit of delay in uploading this, i've been having... One Of Those Days. i hope the chapter makes up for it!
> 
> title is from _armageddon: pick your plot_ by a.j. lauer:  
> “you dial another college friend, dr. saunders, and she picks up almost immediately, 'hi! got a shitstorm here, what’s up?”

They manage to make it three days without running into a walker, and then it’s all downhill from there.

Dean’s just glad they managed to get three days of peace, if he’s being honest. At least it’s been enough time for Sam to be able to build enough strength to run.

Which is what they’re doing now.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he curses loudly. His hand is slipping from Sam’s because of how sweaty their grips are — he tightens his hold, and tugs a little. “Sammy, you all right?”

“I’m FINE!” Sam yells back, somehow conveying exasperation even as they’re both running for their life. “Just GO!”

Dean chances a look behind. Sam’s right on his heels, and a few yards away is the group of walkers, around six or seven. Bastards are surprisingly fast when they have to be. Normally Dean would’ve fought them off instead of running, but they’re outnumbering him and Sam, and they caught the brothers by surprise.

They’re in a town, running up the main road, trying to find a good place to hide. All they’ve come across so far has been one-story houses and shops — all of them useless. Dean’s looking for something more than two stories — walkers may be fast on their feet while running, but for some reason, their coordination fails them completely when it comes to stairs, trees, etc.

“There!” Sam yells, pointing at a building a few meters away.

They race towards it, Dean’s heart beating so loud in his ears he almost can’t hear anything else. He kicks the door open and pushes Sam in first before entering, and the two of them make their way for the stairs. They’ve climbed about three stories — six flights — before Sam collapses against the railing, hand clutching his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

Dean stops short. “Sammy?”

“I’m fine,” Sam wheezes, sounding like he’s dying. “Just — I just need a minute.”

“It’s okay,” Dean tells him. He reaches for his bag, intending to find his canteen and offer it to Sam — and his fingers close over thin air. “Fuck,” he hisses as the realization hits. “Sam, fuck, our bag.”

Sam looks up, and his eyes go wide when he notices it’s missing. “Shit. Where—?”

“I don’t know,” Dean retorts, beginning to panic a little. That bag has their entire life in it — food, water, weapons, ammo, first aid kit. He racks his brains, struggling to pinpoint the exact moment he lost it, but comes up empty. “Must’ve gotten torn off at some point while we were running—”

“Do you remember when?” Sam asks, tone frantic.

Dean shakes his head. “No. Fuck.”

Sam sinks against the railing, sitting down on the steps. He’s still breathing hard. “What do we do now?” he asks.

Dean swallows, mouth dry from lack of water and exertion — and apprehension. “I gotta go get it back.”

“Dean, you _can’t_ ,” Sam says at once.

“I’ve got to,” Dean counters. “Sam, all our stuff is in it—”

“We’ll get more stuff, we’ll raid,” Sam begins desperately.

“Raid _what_?” Dean cuts in. “Look around, man, everything’s shut down! Everything’s empty! There’s _nothing_.”

“Dean, there’s too many of them, they’ll kill you,” Sam says, forcing himself to his feet. “At least let _me_ go, I’m immune—”

“No way,” Dean snaps. “No way, Sam, you won’t make it—”

“Neither will you!” Sam argues.

Both of them go quiet as there’s a crash somewhere below them, followed by the sounds of snarling. The walkers, it appears, have entered the building.

“Fuck,” sighs Dean. They’re trapped. Dean had been counting on using the higher ground as an advantage and picking them off one by one using his rifle, but that’s no longer an option seeing as he no longer has his rifle. There’s nothing else for it; he’s going to have to fight his way out and retrieve his bag, and then come back for Sam.

“Dean, _no_ ,” Sam says at once, clearly having guessed what his brother’s thinking. “Dean, no way—”

“Sam, there’s no other way,” Dean says. “I’ve got to, okay—”

“You _can’t_ ,” begs Sam, reaching out and grabbing Dean’s shirt. “You can’t, Dean, you’ll die, and I’ll be alone—”

“That won’t happen,” Dean says with more confidence than he feels. “I’ll come back, okay? I’ll get our stuff, and I’ll come back—”

“How are you planning on leaving?” demands Sam. “We don’t have any guns or knives—”

“I’ll figure it out—”

“They’ll bite you, let me go, Dean—”

“ _No_ , Sam—”

“I won’t let you die!” Sam bursts out, and Dean goes quiet. Sam’s chest is heaving, eyes wild, and his grip in Dean’s shirt is so tight it looks painful.

“I won’t die,” he says in the end, covering Sam’s hand with his own. “Promise, Sam.” He gives his little brother a crooked smile. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Sam’s eyes well up, and he bites his lip, turning his head so that he’s not looking at Dean anymore. “You gotta promise,” he rasps, well-aware he sounds like a kid again. “Swear, Dean.”

“I swear,” Dean says at once. Anything that’ll make Sam let him go. “Swear on my life, Sam. I’ll come back.” It’s morning; the sun’s shining dimly through a layer of grime on the window in the stairwell, and Dean glances outside once before turning back to Sam. “Look, if I’m not back by nightfall — leave, okay? Find something to defend yourself with, and go on.”

“No,” Sam says at once. “No, Dean—”

“I’m not asking!” Dean snaps.

“I don’t care,” Sam retorts. “Come back, Dean. You _have_ to. And—” He lets go of Dean’s shirt and reaches into his pocket. Dean watches as he brings out the Swiss Army knife he always carries — the present John had given him on his last birthday with his family, the present Dean had helped him pick out — and hands it to Dean. “Take this,” Sam tells him. “It’s not much, but it’s _something_.” He pushes it into Dean’s hand and closes his brothers' fingers around it.

Dean looks at the tiny knife in his hand for a second, and then up at Sam, who’s watching him nervously. “Thank you,” he says, and then on a whim, presses a hard, messy kiss to Sam’s forehead. And then, before he can stop himself, he rushes back down the stairs, not daring to look back. If he looks at Sam right now, he won’t be able to go.

The walkers have managed to climb up one flight of stairs, halfway up to the first floor. Dean pauses for a moment at the top of the staircase, and then steels himself. Now or never. There’s a fire extinguisher in a bracket on the wall; he rips it off and aims it at them, letting loose a spray of fire retardant. He has no idea if it’ll hurt them; all he’s hoping for is that it’ll slow them down enough to give him a head start.

It works — the walker in the front hisses as the spray hits its eyes. Dean continues spraying liberally in their direction, making sure to get as many of them as he can, and at the same time he begins descending the staircase. The spray seems to be blinding them, but some of them claw out wildly in his direction anyway. Dean dodges, heart in his mouth, and beats off two of them with the end of the extinguisher before dropping it and running as fast as his legs can carry him.

He’s halfway down the street when he hears the sound of glass shattering. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the walkers pour out of the building. They seem to have recovered, and now they look _pissed_. Swallowing, Dean works his legs faster, ignoring the burn in his muscles. He needs to find his bag, and needs to come back to Sam. His little brother is defenseless, and the only thing that’s giving Dean a small measure of comfort is that he’s succeeded in drawing the walkers away from Sam.

He’s been hoping to find his bag somewhere on the road, but it’s not there. They’d been running for about an hour before finding the building, which means that it could be _anywhere_. They’ve covered a lot of distance between the first attack and now. “Shit,” Dean curses, not daring to slow even as he feels his lungs protest at the overexertion. They’re still chasing him and he’s got nothing to fight back with except Sam’s tiny knife.

Ten minutes later he reaches the outer limit of the town. He remembers seeing a broken-down car near here when they’d first entered, and his eyes search for it now. He spots it eventually and makes his way over, elbowing the window till it smashes and wrenching the door open. Instead of getting in he pops the trunk, runs around to the back, and begins throwing out the contents of the trunk frantically.

His fingers close around cold steel, and he pants out a prayer to whoever’s looking out for him. Hefting the tire iron in his right hand, he makes his way back to the front of the car, gets in the driver’s seat, and wrenches open the glove compartment. Maybe whoever owned the car kept a gun in there—

“Yahtzee,” he mutters, seeing a tiny revolver half-buried under some papers. He fishes it out, balancing the tire iron on his knees so he can check the chamber. Three bullets.

Seven walkers. He’s going to have to be careful.

For a wild moment he considers driving. He can hotwire the car, use it to run over the walkers, and then find his bag, get back to Sam— and then his hope dies when he sees the matted wires dangling in the driver’s side footwell. Looks like someone’s already had that idea. This car, for all intents and purposes, is nothing but a hunk of metal now.

“Fuck,” he sighs, and freezes when he hears a scream. The walkers are here. He scrambles out of the car, tire iron in his left hand and gun in his right, raised and ready. Maybe he can pick off some of them now and fight off the rest, because there is no way he can continue outrunning them.

He crouches behind the open door of the car, using it to hide his body, and raises his head just a little to see out of the broken window. The walkers are about two hundred meters away, and getting closer every second.

Dean raises his gun, fires twice in quick succession. Two of them drop.

One bullet left. Then it’ll be just him, his tire iron, and hopefully a benevolent deity watching over him.

The group of walkers has stopped in their tracks, looking around wildly as if trying to figure out where the bullets came from. They’re not the smartest bunch, so Dean knows he’s got a couple minutes till they realize he’s by the car. Keeping his eyes trained on them, he moves his body back inside the car, putting the tire iron up on the dash and reaching towards the glove compartment with one hand.

He sifts through papers, an ancient pack of gum, and about three different types of car chargers before he finally finds what he’s looking for. Pocketing the tiny book of matches, Dean exits the car, grabs his tire iron, and moves round to the back again, where the trunk is still open. Hoping and praying, he makes sure the walkers aren’t moving, before ducking his head and rummaging through the trunk.

Half-empty canister of fuel. And — Dean takes a moment to thank whichever deity is looking out for him right now — empty beer bottles. He grabs one of them, fills it up with fuel, and takes off his outer shirt, ripping it quickly into strips and shoving one of them into the open mouth of the bottle.

The walkers begin to move, probably having noticed the flurry of movement from the direction of the car. Dean waits till they’re close enough, and then lights the flannel in the bottle before lobbing it towards them in a quick movement.

His crude Molotov flies through the air and hits one of the walkers in the face before falling to the ground. Dean ducks behind the car again, and hears the mini-explosion a second later, followed by screeching. One glance, taken over the edge of the trunk — all five of them are on fire, flailing and writhing as they try to extinguish themselves.

The screaming is almost human. It grates at Dean’s ears, and he quickly makes three more Molotovs. Then he tucks them under his arm, grabs the tire iron and the gun, and breaks off into a run again, not looking back.

It’s noon by the time he finally reaches the place where they’d been attacked. They’d been having breakfast when they’d gotten ambushed by the walkers, and Dean can still see the remnants of the rabbit they’d been eating. It’s nothing but bones now, probably ravaged by some wild animal scavenging for food.

No bag.

Fuck.

He remembers having his bag when they’d begun running, but he’s gone over every single inch between here and the building in town, and there’s no sign of it anywhere. For a second Dean considers the possibility that it had been carried off by animals, attracted to the smell of roast rabbit that seems to cling to it permanently — but then he dismisses the thought. It’s a heavy bag, not easy to drag, and in any case, there are no scraps of canvas or anything else to indicate it’s been stolen by animals.

For all intents and purposes, it seems to have vanished into thin air.

“Fuck,” curses Dean heavily, falling on his knees by the side of the road. The sun’s beating down on him, hot and uncomfortable on his skin, and his shirt is soaked through with sweat. He’s come all this way, and for _nothing_. He’s going to have to return empty-handed, and figure something out.

Food doesn’t worry him, but water does. It’s difficult to find clean, drinkable water, and Dean has no idea if there’s any in the town Sam’s in. Weapons are another problem — all of their stuff was in the bag. _Stupid_ , he curses himself. That’s what happens when they let their guard down and put their weapons inside, even if it’s just for the duration of a meal. He has no one to blame but himself for this one.

And the first aid kit. Sam still needs painkillers every now and then. His antibiotic course is over — thank God for small mercies, Dean thinks desperately. But there’s always the risk of injury, and Dean has got nothing for that scenario. No disinfectant, no oral antibiotics, no painkillers or gauze or anything.

They’re well and truly fucked.

* * *

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there for, but when the heat gets too unbearable, Dean forces himself to his feet and picks up his assortment of makeshift weapons. Time to go back to Sam, let his little brother know how spectacularly he’s fucked up this time. If they both die, it’s going to be on Dean. And that too just after Sam fought tooth and nail to make his way back to him.

He’s only gone two steps when he hears leaves rustling, and turns to see a woman emerge from the fields bordering the road. She’s tall, almost as tall as Dean himself, with red hair braided down her back and brown eyes that look carved from stone. “Looking for this?” she asks with a smirk, and holds up the canvas bag Dean’s spent his morning looking for.

He’s only seen her from far away, never this up close, but the sight of her still makes Dean’s blood run cold. “Give that back,” he manages to say, tone loaded with false bravado. “You give it to me right now and no one needs to get hurt.”

She laughs, slinging the bag higher up on her shoulder. She’s wearing fatigues, carrying a gun and has a knife strapped to her belt. Dean looks around, but doesn’t see anyone else.

“I’m not kidding,” he growls at her.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not,” she says sweetly.

He raises his pistol.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she says with a click of her tongue, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t see them, but there are snipers around, and they will not hesitate to take you out.”

“What do you want?” Dean snarls. He doesn’t lower his arm. Outnumbered and outgunned he may be, but damned if he’ll go down without a fight.

“Your brother,” she says, and his heart sinks. He’s not surprised, but this is everything he’d been afraid of. “He managed to give us the slip a few times over the years, but we’ve finally caught up to him now.”

“You can’t have him,” Dean says, struggling to keep his voice steady and firm even as his heart beats rapidly away in his chest.

“We are not going to hurt him,” the redhead says, tone sounding earnest though her eyes remain stony. “We just need to know why he’s immune. Don’t you want all of this to be over? For there to be a cure?”

“Not by giving my brother up,” Dean retorts. “I know what you bastards do, all right. No way am I letting you get your paws on my brother.” He’s noticed she hasn’t said either his name or Sam’s, which means she doesn’t know. That’s a good sign, he thinks. Means she and her people can’t ask around for them by name.

“Your brother is human,” she replies sharply. “Walkers are not.”

“They were people once, you sick fucks,” Dean snaps. “They don’t deserve the crap you do to ‘em.”

“But it’s fine to burn them alive?” she returns.

“It’s not the same thing and you know it,” Dean retorts.

She sighs heavily, as if he’s being a nuisance. “Look, I would love to stand around all day and argue the finer points of what constitutes a person and what doesn’t,” she says, “but I honestly don’t have the time. I’ve got things to do, diseases to cure. I’m asking for the last time — where is your brother?”

“Fuck off,” Dean says. For good measure, he spits at her feet.

“Ugh, I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” she says, and raises her free hand, two fingers up. A second later, there’s a sharp pain in Dean’s neck.

“What—” he begins, dropping the tire iron as he raises his hand to his neck, but then his vision blurs and tunnels at an alarming rate, and his head grows heavy. A second later he feels himself crash to the ground, and vaguely registers the sound of his Molotovs shattering before everything goes black.

* * *

Dean comes to with the extremely uncomfortable notion that he’s being dragged across something very rough. He cracks open an eye and sees nothing but greenery, and resists the urge to curse out loud. _Fuck_ , he thinks vehemently to himself instead.

He’s been bound and is being taken through some kind of forest, that much he’s figured out. These people probably have a base nearby, which is where they must be taking him.

“Think he’ll talk?” says a voice somewhere above Dean’s head.

“Nah,” answers a second voice, sounding close enough that Dean figures it’s the person dragging him. “But that’s all right. We’ll get it out of him somehow.”

“Where the hell could he have hidden him?” says the first person, sounding frustrated. “I mean, we searched the entire town, man.”

“No fuckin’ idea.”

Good, so that means they haven’t found Sam. It also means that now Dean, too, has no idea where his little brother is.

He’ll worry about this in a little while. For now, though, he turns his attention back to the conversation going on around him.

“Think he really might be immune?”

“Boss says he is. Says she saw his healed bite herself.”

“You believe her?”

“Yeah, I guess. What else we got?”

A pause. Then, tone pensive, “Yeah. Best hope this works. I don’t know what we can do if it doesn’t.”

“Well, we can’t give up, this much I’ll tell you. Gotta keep fighting on, man. Till we can’t anymore.”

Fighting. Dean tamps down his disgust, not wanting it to show on his face and tip off his abductors that he’s awake. That’s what they call it, vivisecting living things and then getting rid of them like they’re nothing but rubbish. They don’t know shit about what it’s like to fight. They don’t know what it’s like to spend five years feeling a loss like a missing limb, what it’s like to not be able to breathe or feel whole till you got the most important person in your life returned to you. They don’t know what it’s like to walk over an entire country looking for someone, to almost die just as you find them again. They don’t know _shit_ , and Dean hates them with a vehemence he hasn’t felt in years.

He’s got to get away from them. He’s got to get back to Sam somehow, protect Sam from them.

A shout breaks into his thoughts, and then a second later he goes still as his captors stop walking. “What—” begins the first one.

“Walkers,” says the other one grimly.

“Gotta fight ‘em off.”

“I know. What am I supposed to do with this one?” Dean feels a kick in his side, and it takes everything he has in him not to cry out.

“Leave him,” comes the response. “He’s out cold, man, he’s not going anywhere. In any case you tied him up pretty tight.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Yeah, okay. ASH! Come here, keep an eye on this shithead over here.”

Dean cracks an eye open once again to see what’s going on. He can’t see anyone, but he can hear two sets of footsteps receding, and one approaching. A second later, a man appears in his peripheral vision, sporting an honest-to-God mullet and looking pensive as he sizes Dean up.

“Dude,” he says. “I know you’re awake.”

Dean stays completely still.

“Seriously. You can quit fakin’ now. I’m not gonna narc.”

Taking a chance, Dean opens his eyes. The mullet dude is looking down at him with some kind of wary amusement. He’s also wearing the same fatigues as the rest of his group, and holding a rifle, but other than that he looks completely out of place. Something fundamental about him seems different from them.

“They’re off fightin’ walkers,” he reports to Dean, placing his rifle barrel-down on the ground and resting his elbow on the butt. “And it’s just me, watchin’ you.”

Dean remains quiet, trying to gauge the situation. This is… unexpected.

“And you seem like a pretty strong guy,” the dude — Ash — goes on. “Be a shame if you knocked me out cold, stole my gun, and ran.”

“Dunno if you’ve noticed,” Dean says, finally deciding to speak, “but I’m kinda tied.” He holds up his bound wrists.

“Listen, I’ll make you a deal,” Ash tells him, kneeling down to Dean’s level. “You get outta those ropes, I’ll let you have my gun. You can go get your kid brother and get the hell outta here.”

“Why the fuck would you help me?” Dean demands. “How do I know this isn’t a trap of some kind?”

“‘Cause I don’t like this,” Ash states. “I don’t like their little plan of usin’ you as bait to get your brother. You’re right, you know. About what they do in there.”

“You hate it so much and yet you’re still here,” Dean points out.

“Don’t know where else to go,” Ash says with a shrug. “‘Sides, over here I’m useful, man. I get to do research and try to find a cure—” He pauses when he sees the disgust on Dean’s face. “Ah, no, not on walkers,” he says. “I don’t do the vivisections and the cuttin’ up and all that crap. I’m in tech. I got stuff that can tell if someone’s infected before they even begin showing symptoms. I got enough computers to set up a lab if I wanted to.”

“And you don’t want to?”

Ash shakes his head. “Nah, man, not for these people. Look. What I’m workin’ on right now — genome sequencing. I figure out what it is in the walker’s DNA that makes ‘em like that, makes ‘em different from us, maybe I can figure out a cure. I’m _this_ close—” He holds up his thumb and forefinger with barely a millimeter between their tips. “I figure about a week more, and I’ll be done. Then I can leave. Until then, I gotta stay ‘cause I need their stuff.”

“How do I know you’re not fucking with me?” Dean demands.

“You don’t,” Ash tells him, standing again. “I’ll tell you this, though — they’re almost done fightin’ off the walkers. I reckon you got about three minutes, if you’re _really_ interested in leaving.”

Dean considers the situation. Three minutes is just about enough time for him to get himself free, grab Ash’s gun, and get the hell out of here. If Ash is for real — well and good. If he _isn’t_ , then Dean can take him in a fight. If this is a trap and he runs into trouble later on — well, he’ll have a gun.

It’s late afternoon now. He has no idea where the hell he is, or where Sam is.

Better hurry.

Without saying anything Dean reaches for the Swiss Army knife in his front pocket. It’s a struggle to get it out and open it with his wrists bound to each other, but he manages somehow, and positions it between his bent knees with the blade up and out. Holding his wrists over it, he begins cutting through the ropes in a sawing motion, well-aware of Ash watching him this entire time.

Two minutes, and the ropes fall off. Dean makes short work of the ropes around his ankles, and then puts the knife back in his pocket and holds his hand out for Ash’s gun. Ash hands it to him, looking impressed. “Got a minute,” he reminds Dean. “Here.” He hands him a map too.

“What about you?” Dean asks, checking to make sure the gun’s loaded before he takes the map.

“Knock me out,” Ash tells him. “So it’ll look like a fair fight.”

“Okay. Any idea where my bag is?”

Ash shrugs. “Boss went through it, found nothing useful I guess, and left it by the side of the road somewhere. Maybe you’ll find it on your way back.”

Dean nods. Then he hesitates, and says, “Washington.”

“What?”

This is a risk. If Ash is lying, then Dean will be leading him straight to his friends. But somehow, he gets the feeling it’s okay. Ash is genuine. And Dean’s gut hasn’t led him wrong yet. Besides, if it comes to that, Jo and her people can take Ash and whoever he brings very easily.

“When you get out, go to Washington,” Dean tells him. “There’s a camp near what used to be Olympia. Ask for Jo, tell her—” He hesitates, not wanting to give out his real name. “Tell her Bobby’s kid sent you,” he says in the end. “She’ll take you in, help you out.”

“Jo,” says Ash. “Got it.” He takes a step back. “Try not to hit me too hard,” he jokes.

Dean nods. “Thanks,” he says softly, and then knocks Ash out with a swift hit to the head with the butt of the rifle. Ash crumples, and Dean stays just long enough to make sure he doesn’t split his head open on a rock. Then he turns, and runs.

Time to get back to Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is sam's POV again, and don't worry, he and dean will be reunited. i can't keep them apart too long ;D please comment and let me know if you're enjoying the story!


	8. Stop Being So Serious, and Get a Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has an adventurous day. A dog is acquired. He finds Dean again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh, sorry this is late!! had some stuff going on and couldn't really find the time to edit and upload this chapter. here it is now, and i hope you guys are all still here and interested!!
> 
> **WARNING:** somewhat graphic description of a dying animal.
> 
> title is from _armageddon in retrospect: and other new and unpublished writings on war and peace_ by kurt vonnegut:  
> “and how should we behave during this apocalypse? we should be unusually kind to one another, certainly. but we should also stop being so serious. jokes help a lot. and get a dog, if you don't already have one.”

It’s been about five hours since Dean’s left, and until now it’s been quiet. No walkers — Sam had heard explosions in the distance, and understood that his brother had managed to get rid of the ones that had been chasing them.

No Dean, either.

Sam glances out of the window in the stairwell. Everything looks exactly the same as the last time he looked outside, about fifteen minutes ago. Trees, old storefronts, abandoned houses—

A glare in the window right across the street from Sam, same level as him. He freezes, ducks.

It was perfectly circular, and about the right size for a rifle scope. He’s not alone here; there’s someone in the building across the street, possibly more people around in other places, and they’ve got weapons. He’s lucky that he’s been tipped off by the sun glinting off the scope — they’d arrived so quiet that Sam’s pretty sure he would have had no idea they were there till he got caught.

He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, his heart beating loud enough in his ears to drown out everything else. He can’t stay here and wait them out, that’s for certain. Whoever it is, they’ve got weapons as advanced as sniper rifles — and Sam can only think of one group who’d have all that stuff. The crazy nuts, it seems, have finally caught up with them.

He’s got to escape, right now, somehow. He knows that that means leaving Dean behind, but he supposes he’ll just have to find a way to catch up with his brother. He’s found Dean once before, he’ll do it again, and this time he’s faring much better, health wise.

He peeks outside again. There’s a group of people moving up the street, ducking into stores and buildings, clearly searching. Sam’s got about a few minutes before they reach his hiding-place; he’s going to have to move fast, and do it now.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and then gets to his feet. He has no weapons on him right now, not even his little knife — so it looks like it’s just him and his wits. He wraps his jacket tighter around himself, and then runs down the stairs as quietly as he can, skipping every other step.

He emerges somewhere near the entrance of the building, and is greeted with shattered glass and a used-up fire extinguisher. Grinning slightly — this can only be Dean’s doing — Sam ducks behind a wall and creeps along it to the back of the lobby, taking care not to be seen.

There’s a back door, thankfully, and it’s made of glass, so Sam can see that there’s no one outside. It opens into a parking lot, and Sam steps outside, immediately ducking behind the first car he sees. He waits a second, and then, when he hears no other sound, moves to the next car in a crouch.

He does this until he reaches a tiny, broken down Beetle. The body’s rusting, holes appearing in the metal, and one of the back windows is smashed. Taking care to avoid injuring himself, Sam reaches in the broken window and gropes around for the door release, finding it in a couple seconds and managing to get the door open.

It’s dusty as hell inside, and Sam pulls up the collar of his shirt to cover his nose. He doesn’t get inside just yet, instead feeling along the door until his fingers find the lock for the front driver’s side and push it into the unlocked position. He opens the front door quietly and pops the trunk before heading round to the front, where the trunk is usually located on Beetles.

The trunk is empty, which makes it easier for him to lift up the bottom and find the tire iron. He also finds a first aid kit — rudimentary as hell, but it’ll do. Whispering a _thank you_ to whoever’s listening, he grabs both items, shuts the trunk as quietly as possible, and moves around to the back again.

He shuts the front door and then gets in the back, making sure his shirt collar remains covering his nose and mouth. He’s taken great care not to disturb the layer of dust on the car, so that it still looks untouched. There’s barely enough space in the rear footwell for a growing child; Sam knows that for him it’s going to be an extremely uncomfortable fit. Still, he’s got no choice, so he sucks it up and squeezes himself into the cramped space, tire iron held at the ready.

The windows of the car are so dirty that if anyone looks inside it’ll be impossible to see anything. Sam’s hoping to make that work in his favor, but the broken window is worrying him. It’s by his feet when he lies down, so that if anyone does appear, he can kick them before they can grab at him. He just hopes it won’t come to that. This is the only car in the entire parking lot that he could get open without making noise — picking open car doors has never been his specialty. Also, it’s small. Sam knows that whoever is hunting him is well-aware of his height, and they won’t expect to find him in an old, rusty Bug. They’ll probably look in the SUVs and pickup trucks first, and there are plenty of those in the parking lot to keep them occupied a while.

Sam takes in a deep breath, tries to get himself as comfortable as possible, and settles in. All he can do now is wait, and pray.

A few minutes later he hears several sets of heavy footsteps. Then a man’s voice. “Building’s clear. He’s not here.”

“Think he might be in the parking lot?” asks a female voice.

“Not likely,” says the first person. “Look around, the dust on these cars is untouched. He wasn’t here.”

Sam holds his breath. It can’t be that easy, can it?

“Still think we should take a look. Just in case. He’s precious cargo, we can’t leave any stone unturned.”

No, of course it can’t.

“What about the other one?” The voices are closer now. Sam can hear them move about, not bothering to be stealthy. Why should they, when they seem so confident that they’ll find him if he’s here? It’s probably the last place left to check.

“Boss and the others are out lookin’ for him.”

“Why, though? Isn’t he normal?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Not like he’s ever been bitten, so we don’t know. They’re brothers, though. If one’s immune, there’s a chance the other might be.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“Then he’ll do just fine as bait.”

This last sentence sounds like it’s coming from just over his head. Taking small, shallow breaths, Sam tilts his face up towards the window, and sees the vague outline of a man just outside the door.

Sam’s grip tightens on the tire iron. His palms are slippery with sweat, and it pools in the dip of his collarbone, collects in his hairline. His dark clothes and hair blend in well with the dirty interior of the car, but that’s not going to hold up to closer inspection. And if someone makes their way round to the other side of the car, with the smashed window, he’ll be caught.

_Please_ , he prays, squeezing his eyes shut. _Please please please, God please_ —

Something’s jabbing into his back, sharp and painful, and the cramped position he’s in is making his body hurt, but he can’t move, can’t make a single sound, they’re right here, and if he’s caught that’s the end of the road for him because he doesn’t think he could escape them a second time, and oh God, oh God they’re after Dean too, they’re after his brother, and all Sam can do is hope and pray _please please please please please_ that they haven’t caught him, that Dean’s safe—

The sound of a radio crackling to life is so sudden that Sam is unable to help a small whimper, before he immediately bites down on his lip in an effort to silence himself. Pulse spiking, adrenaline coursing through his veins, he makes himself stay completely and utterly still, hoping he hasn’t been caught, that no one heard—

“Yeah, parking lot’s empty. No sign of him. Over.”

Sam exhales, long and slow and silent, and dares to open his eyes. The figure outside the window is holding a radio up to their face, gun hand down by their side.

“Right, okay, comin’ back. We’ll be at your position in twenty. Over.”

_Please_ , Sam begs. _Please._

Absolute and complete silence. Then footsteps again.

“All right, folks, let’s move out. Nothin’ to see here.”

More footsteps, now retreating. Sam doesn’t dare to breathe.

“Where the fuck is he?” Fading.

“Hell if I know. Squirrelly little shit.” Even further.

Then again, complete silence.

Sam lets out his breath, feels his heart slow.

He’s safe. For now, he’s safe.

He stays in the car for around an hour and a half, until it’s dusk. Only when he sees the sky turning pink does he finally allow himself to struggle into an upright position and then out of the car, letting his shirt fall off his face as he sits down on the ground by the back wheel.

Sam takes in lungful upon lungful of the clean evening air, and then gets to his feet again. He’s got to find Dean, he can’t waste any time — but he’s got no idea where his brother might be, and it just makes more sense to stay here, at least till it’s night, because then there’s a small chance Dean might come back and find him—

That plan is put to rest the second Sam steps out into the main street and sees three walkers. They’ve got their backs to him, haven’t seen him or sensed his presence yet, and Sam’s not going to wait around and give them the chance. He can’t stay here and wait for Dean, that much is for certain.

Maybe he can head in the same direction they’ve come from, retrace his steps like Dean did earlier today. With some luck, he’ll run into his brother, or at least find some indication of where he must have gone—

_Crack_.

Sam freezes, foot still on the dry twig he’s just stepped on. The walkers’ heads snap up in unison, and then they all turn to find Sam standing there, deer in headlights, a meal just waiting there for them.

“Shit,” whispers Sam, hefting the tire iron in his hand so that he has a better grip.

The walkers begin moving towards him, weird half-shuffle half-run gait. Sam doesn’t wait to see how much faster they can get; he turns, and he doesn’t even waste energy on thinking of a place to go.

He runs.

* * *

The sun has long set by the time Sam finally stops. He has no idea where he is; he’d left the town behind a long time ago. He’d circled round till he was running in the direction he and Dean had come from, in the hope that he might find his brother somehow.

Now it’s nightfall, and he’s surrounded by fields, and there’s no sign of Dean.

On the bright side, there’s no sign of walkers, either. Sam could probably fight off a couple with his tire iron, but the way his legs are trembling and his head is spinning, he wouldn’t bet on himself to survive it.

He needs water. He’s so dehydrated his head is hurting from it. The barely healed cut on his thigh is hurting too, sharp and needling, and Sam knows he should probably take a look at it. But he’s afraid of what he might find, and besides, he no longer has the first-aid kit with him. He'd lost it at some point, running from the walkers. Even if he'd had it, there's no light to see by, except whatever the moon provides.

He’s got nothing. It’s just him and his tire iron and nothing else, no water, no food, no first aid kit, not so much as a pig sticker.

And most importantly — no Dean.

Sam wants nothing more than to sit down by the side of the road and not get up for a couple days. He misses his bed, back home in Lawrence, and he misses Dean’s bedspread from the camp in Washington, and he even misses that awfully uncomfortable pallet they’d slept on, in the cabin. He misses his brother’s constant jokes, his hovering and mother-henning, and the way he made fun of Sam for everything except the way Sam clung to him at night. About a week. That’s all the time they’d had together before they got separated once more, and the loss feels fresh in Sam’s chest, like he’s seventeen again, watching his brother get ripped away from him.

God, he barely survived it the first time. He’s damn sure he won’t survive it now. Five years without Dean, and then he got to have him for a week. Sam doesn’t think he could live another _day_ without his brother, let alone another half decade.

“Please,” he prays again, voice hoarse and raspy. “Please, please, whoever’s listening, God, anyone, _please_ , I need Dean, I need him—”

So much of his identity is tied in with Dean. For as long as he can remember, Sam’s always been Dean’s kid brother. All his neighbors had known him as that, and so had every teacher in his school. He remembers how it had frustrated him, sometimes — all he wanted was to be known for himself, for being _Sam_ , not just Dean’s little brother.

And then he was away from Dean for five years. In that time, all he was was _Sam_. Just Sam. Alone, lost, fatherless, brotherless Sam. Wayward orphan, freak of nature. And he’d hated every second of it, would’ve given anything to get some part of his identity back. Top-of-his-class Sam. Full-ride-to-Stanford Sam. Gonna-be-a-lawyer-and-help-people Sam.

John’s kid Sam. Dean’s kid brother Sam.

“It’s not fair,” Sam whispers, words carried away by the wind the moment they leave his chapped, dry lips. “‘S not fair, I only got him for a week, he’s my big brother, I want him back, you gotta give him back to me, it’s not _fair_ —”

He’s Dean’s little brother Sam, but if Dean’s not even here then what is the _point_? Without Dean, he’s back to being broken, lost, brotherless Sam. No family, no future, no _nothing_.

He trips over something and goes down _hard_. The fall jolts him out of his thoughts, focusing him instead on the fact that he seems to have skinned his knees and the palms of his hands. Twenty-two, survived the fricking end of the world, and he’s still tripping over things and hurting himself like a child.

Sighing, Sam sits up, dusting his hands off on his shirt and wincing at the sting. He’s torn through his jeans, and he can see dark blood on his knees. Perfect. Just perfect. Exactly what he needs, out here in the middle of nowhere, without a first aid kit. With the sort of luck he has right now, it’s probably going to get infected too, because history likes to repeat itself in the cruelest of manners with Sam as a punching bag, apparently.

Then he sees what it is he’s tripped over, and for a second, he forgets how to breathe.

The strap’s torn, and there are mud stains all over it, but it’s unmistakable — his and Dean’s canvas bag, lying discarded on the side of this road looking like it’s been through hell. Sam scrambles towards it, ignoring the pain in his hands and knees, and unzips it, scrabbling through it to make sure everything is exactly as it had been. Clothes, food, water, weapons, first aid kit — it’s all here, and Sam lets out a wild, painful sort of laugh as he grabs the canteen and drinks from it. The water is cold, and it feels heavenly in his mouth, and all Sam wants to do is keep on drinking till he’s sated. But he can’t; he’s got to be careful, got to make it last, and so he stops himself after a few sips, and puts it back in the bag. “Thank you,” he whispers when he’s done. He’s not sure who exactly he’s addressing, but someone out there must’ve been listening to him, watching out for him.

He opens the first aid kit with shaky fingers and gets the alcohol wipes, wincing at the burn when he cleans his injuries. He won’t need bandages or anything, so he throws the wipes down on the road when he’s done with them and then slathers antibiotic cream over his hands and knees. In another life he'd have worried about littering - but hell, the world's ended anyway.

The next thing he does is elongate the strap on the bag as much as he can, and then ties the two torn ends together in the strongest knot he knows how to make. He tests it by zipping up the bag and then lifting it up, and it seems to hold. Satisfied, Sam gets to his feet and hefts the bag on his shoulder, feeling rejuvenated after this small win.

He already found Dean once, and in that instance, Dean had been so much farther away. He can do it again, and this time he’s not sick and dying. This time he’s got his strength, and he’s got a vague idea of where his brother might be, and that’s more than enough for him right now.

Sam sets off again, walking along the road. A couple of steps in he stops again, and puts his tire iron in the bag so he can replace it with a gun. It’s night, when the walkers are at their strongest, and Sam refuses to be caught by surprise again. Then it occurs to him that now he’s also got a flashlight and a map, and he can actually find a direction to go and search in. So, he sits back down, pulls out a state map and gets to work.

It takes him a few minutes to find the name of the town he’d been in. From there it’s easy to trace the road he’s taken. Sam squints at the map — there’s forest nearby, just beyond the fields that currently surround Sam. If he keeps following the road he’s taken, he’ll end up back where he and Dean had been yesterday. But if he turns and goes back towards town, and then beyond — soon he’ll be at the state line, closer to Colorado.

He folds the map into his pocket, lifts the bag, and continues down the road. He’s not leaving here without Dean, under _any_ circumstances.

The world’s different at night. Sam has no idea what time it is, but he estimates it’s been a few hours since sundown. He can hear crickets and owls, and his own footsteps scruffing along the asphalt. He can hear the sound of the wind whispering through the wheat fields around him, sounding like a thousand hushed conversations going on at once. The bag on his shoulder is the only thing that reminds him of where he is, that he’s not all alone and walking all over the continental US in search of his brother.

He stops short when he sees a silhouette on the road up ahead, outlined in the light from the moon. The humanoid figure is kneeling, and there are wet slurping sounds, and pained yelping that sounds like it’s coming from a hurt dog. Sam’s stomach twists when he realizes what’s going on — the walker in front of him is feeding on a dog while it’s still alive.

Without thinking about the noise it’ll make or the fact that he might attract more walkers, Sam raises his gun and shoots. John Winchester and a hard life have trained him well — the bullet takes the walker in the head, and it falls forward. A loud yelp indicates that the walker has fallen into the dog.

Sam speeds up, jogging towards the gruesome scene with his gun still at the ready. The walker is well and truly dead, brains leaking out from the hole Sam put in its skull, and Sam moves it aside with his foot so that he can take a better look at the dog. The poor thing’s more dead than not — glazed eyes and bloody muzzle, belly heaving in a desperate attempt to breathe.

Sam feels tears rise to his eyes. This is too much like what had happened with Rumsfeld, except somehow _worse_. Rumsfeld had had Bobby to put him out of his misery. This poor dog is just lying on the side of the road, looking up at Sam, its panting fading with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs, reaching out to pet its muzzle with shaky hands. “I’m so sorry—” It’s illogical, he knows. There’s no way he could’ve saved the dog. But it feels like a loss all the same, like it’s his fault somehow, and he can’t shake it off.

The dog huffs out one last breath. Sam closes his eyes, sitting back on his haunches, and wipes his hands off on his own shirt before wiping at his face. He’s not crying openly, not yet, but it’s a close thing, he can feel it. His heart hurts.

Then he hears a small whimper. Opening his eyes, Sam looks around, searching for the source of the sound. He finds it a few seconds later — a puppy, hiding in the tall wheatstalks, a few feet away.

“Oh, hey,” Sam whispers, holding his hand out to the puppy. “C’mere, boy. You sweet little thing.”

Maybe it’s his tone, or the fact that he doesn’t seem likely to eat it, but the puppy emerges slowly, eyes wary and gait slow as it shuffles over to Sam. Sam continues smiling, hand outstretched, until the puppy is sniffing his fingers, moist little nose pressing into Sam’s hands. It must decide it trusts him, for it comes closer to sniff at his jacket, and then presses its face into Sam’s side, wide wet eyes looking up at him imploringly.

“You’re okay,” Sam murmurs, petting its head and scratching behind its ears. It’s small and golden, with floppy little ears and a tail that slowly begins to wag, and Sam can’t help but smile. “You’re perfectly all right, little guy,” he tells the puppy, running his hand down its back.

He can’t leave it here. He _can’t_. Besides, he’s always wanted a dog, and this one’s perfect, and it’ll help Sam feel less alone without Dean— and oh shit, Dean hates dogs. He’s not going to be happy about this.

Well, Sam thinks, looking into the puppy’s eyes and feeling his heart melt, Dean is just going to have to deal.

“Guess you’re comin’ with me,” he tells the puppy, and then lifts him into his arms. He can feel the puppy’s tail wagging against him as he gets to his feet, can feel every movement of its chest as it breathes. It’s been a hot minute, and Sam’s already in love, and there’s no way he could ever leave the little guy behind.

They continue walking. The puppy is tiny enough to fit in Sam’s jacket pocket, which leaves both his hands free to handle the gun and the bag. It rides along quietly, looking out at the world pensively, little nose sniffing at the air every now and then.

It’s peaceful for about half an hour when Sam encounters the second walker of the night. This one looks like it’s part of a group, and Sam follows it from a distance, frowning when he realizes it’s going towards something. A second later, he hears gunshots, and a few screams.

“Stay,” he hisses to the puppy, shoving it further into his pocket as gently as he can so that it’s hidden completely. Then he puts his bag down and takes the safety off his gun, moving quietly but quickly in the direction of the fray. It seems like the walkers have cornered someone, and the least Sam can do is help out.

The sounds are coming from inside the fields somewhere, and Sam veers off the road, heading towards the noise. He encounters a couple of 

walker corpses, and hears two more gunshots before he finally reaches the source of all the commotion.

Two walkers, hissing and snarling — and Dean, beating them off with the butt of his rifle.

Must’ve run out of ammo. Sam sets aside the blinding joy threatening to burst from him, just for the moment, and raises his gun, shooting twice in quick succession. The walkers drop, and Dean’s head snaps towards him, face going slack when he sees who it is.

“Sammy?”

Sam grins, so wide it makes his face hurt. “You’re welcome,” he says as he flicks the safety on his gun.

Dean closes the distance between them in two strides, shoving stalks of wheat aside, and then a second later he’s got his arms wrapped tight around Sam, holding him close. Sam hugs him back just as fiercely, taking care not to squish the puppy in his pocket, his hands gripping the back of Dean’s jacket. “Found you again,” he whispers into Dean’s neck, and Dean lets out a wet laugh.

“Yeah, you did,” he says, separating. “God, Sammy—” He grabs Sam’s face and pulls him in, plants another hard, desperate kiss to his forehead. Just like he had in the morning, though it feels a lifetime ago right now.

“You all right?” Sam asks, looking Dean over. His big brother doesn’t look much worse for wear, just a little shabbier than usual. There are no new injuries on him, not that Sam can see.

Dean nods. “Peachy,” he tells Sam, throwing an arm around him and pulling him into his side. “You?”

“Great,” Sam tells him honestly. “What happened, Dean? And where’d you get the gun?”

“Long story,” sighs Dean, chucking it aside now that it’s useless. “Because of fucking course. Hey, look, we gotta find our bag—”

They emerge from the field just then, and Dean stops short when he sees the bag on the roadside. “Found it too,” Sam tells his brother with a grin. “Everything’s in there, not a single thing missing.”

“Good,” says Dean, sounding like he can’t believe it as he takes out his canteen. Like Sam, he stops himself after a few sips before putting it back in. “God, I fuckin’ _love_ water,” he groans. “So damn glad it’s all here, man.”

“What are the odds, right?” Sam says. Then he feels the puppy squirm, and decides, what the hell, Dean’s in a good mood right now and probably won’t be able to refuse Sam anything. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, lifting the bag onto his own shoulder.

“So I got something,” Sam tells him.

“What?”

In response, Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out the puppy.

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Dean says at once, eyes narrowing. “What the hell, Sam— no way—”

“I couldn’t just leave him!” Sam cuts in, looking imploringly at his brother. “A walker ate his mom, and he was all alone, and look how cute he is!” He holds the dog up so that Dean can get a good look at it.

“Sam, how the hell are we supposed to look after a dog right now?” Dean demands. “We’ve barely got food and water for ourselves!”

“He won’t need much!” Sam promises, though he really has no idea if that’s true or not. “And he can eat outta my share, and he won’t be a burden, Dean, I promise!” The puppy yips, the first sound it’s made all night, as if in agreement.

“Sammy,” sighs Dean.

“Please?”

“Sam, come on—”

“ _Please_?”

“Goddammit,” curses Dean, and that’s how Sam knows he’s won. “Fine. _Fine_. But he’s your responsibility, you hear?” he adds.

Sam nods so fast his hair flies. “Yes! Thank you, _thank you_ —” He throws his arms around Dean again, the puppy cradled between their chests.

Dean softens even further. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, as grumpily as he can, and pats Sam’s back. “Evil little shit, Sammy, ‘s what you are. Takin’ advantage.”

“I’d _never_ ,” Sam says, and plants a messy wet kiss to Dean’s cheek just before letting him go.

“Ew!” Dean makes a production out of wiping his cheek. “Gross, dude.”

“You love me,” laughs Sam, hugging the dog to his chest and knocking his shoulder into Dean’s. “Y’hear that, little guy? Dean says you can stay!”

The dog yips again, and then settles against Sam’s chest, a soft and warm weight. A moment later, Dean’s arm is back around Sam, and Sam leans into his brother’s side, chest feeling lighter than it has in the entire day.

He’s Sam, and he’s not alone. He’s got a puppy, and— he’s Dean’s kid brother again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the drawing included in this chapter is by nat (fuckntoast/[honeycube02](https://honeycube02.tumblr.com/)), and i can't thank her enough for her gorgeous portrayal of sam <3
> 
> please comment and let me know what you thought!!!
> 
> love,  
> remy


	9. Not Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys debate what to name the puppy. Dean thinks about John. A decision is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO CHICKENS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS STORY.
> 
> one more chapter left, plus a short epilogue! i can't thank you all for the comments and kudos, they honestly make my day <3
> 
> title is from _a visit from the goon squad_ by jennifer egan:  
> "sure, everything is ending," jules said, "but not yet."

“We’re not naming the dog Impala.”

“Well, we’re not giving him some stupid nerd name like _Grey Wind_ either. He’s not even gray.”

“It’s not a stupid nerd name, okay, Grey Wind was a total badass—”

“Didn’t he die?”

Sam opens his mouth, and then closes it again when he seems to realize he has no argument for that. Grinning smugly, Dean leans back against the log behind him, putting his elbows up on it. “I win,” he says, smirking.

Sam rolls his eyes up at Dean from where he’s lying down with his head in Dean’s lap. “Still not naming the dog Impala.”

“You suck,” Dean tells him.

He’s in a good mood. It’s been five days since he managed to escape the crazy nuts and meet up with Sam again, and they’ve been relatively peaceful so far. Not too many walkers. They’ve crossed a lot of distance, found plenty of food and water on the way. Even though Colorado turned out to be a bust, nothing but dust and bones, it wasn’t bad enough to put a damper on their spirits.

Right now he’s got a warm fire, and Sam, and a vast night sky above. There’s enough ammo in the bag to last them months. Sam’s lying on his back with his head on Dean’s thigh and the dog on his chest, curled up and sleeping. Sam’s fingers stroke it lazily, occasionally scratching behind its ears. Dean won’t ever admit it, but the adoring look in his little brother’s eyes is making his heart melt.

“Chevy?” he suggests, letting one his hands drop into Sam’s hair. God, he needs a haircut, Dean thinks absently, running his fingers through the long mane.

“No,” Sam snorts. “Hell no.”

“No way am I naming him after a _Ford_.” Dean says the last word like it’s something abhorrent.

Sam rolls his eyes up at Dean again. “Not naming him after any kind of car, Dean.”

“Not naming him after a book character either, Sam.”

“I’m not gonna call him some shit like, I don’t know, _Rover_ ,” Sam declares.

“Too mainstream for you, you little hipster?” Dean asks, tugging at Sam’s hair teasingly.

“Rover’s a stupid name,” Sam says.

“Well, we’ve gotta call him _something_ ,” Dean points out.

“We’ll figure it out,” Sam answers, and then yawns. “God, I’m tired.”

“Get some sleep,” Dean tells him. “Don’t haveta be anywhere till sunrise, man.”

Sam yawns again, and then gently lifts the puppy off his chest. The dog makes a snuffling sound in its sleep, and settles again in the spot Sam put it down in. Sam smiles at it with gooey eyes for a moment before moving over to his newly-acquired sleeping bag, just a couple feet away.

“You gonna sleep?” he asks Dean, zipping himself in.

“Yeah, in a few,” Dean answers. He’s tired, too. Hasn’t been sleeping well the past few days. It’s been a bit difficult on the run — he and Sam sleep in shifts, so that at least one of them is awake and looking out for walkers, scavengers, and unfriendly people. And Dean won’t say it out loud, ever, but it’s been taking a toll on him. He misses going to sleep with Sam next to him.

He knows Sam misses it too. It hasn’t escaped his notice, the way Sam clings to him at night. He knows Sam’s got the same fears he’s got — that they’ll be pulled apart _again_ , that they’ll lose each other, and this time it’ll stick. He wishes there was something he could say to assuage his brother’s fears — and his own — but there’s no promise of anything. He could swear on his life and have it ripped from him the next day.

Hadn’t always been like this. Long time ago, when Dean made a promise, he knew he’d be able to keep it. That’s not the kind of world they live in anymore, though. He can swear up and down on the life of everyone they’ve ever known that he’ll keep Sam safe, but he knows there’s no way he can guarantee that. The universe has proved him wrong twice already.

They always find their way back to each other, though. He’s got to remember that.

“Dean?”

He blinks, looks at his little brother, who’s watching him with concern. “Yeah, Sammy?”

“You all right?”

Dean gives him a small smile, and then gets up. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, getting into the sleeping bag next to his. They’re in an abandoned house that has a large fence bordering the yard, somehow still unbroken, and they’re taking full advantage of the temporary safety. Just for tonight, they don’t need to keep watch.

Dean still keeps his gun within easy reach, and is glad to see Sam do the same.

“Any idea where we’re going?” Sam asks, once Dean’s comfortable.

“Not really,” Dean admits. “I thought we might find something in Colorado, but…” He trails off. They’ve discussed searching other bases too, but Dean’s not convinced. For one, if the one at Colorado was empty, chances are that all of them will be. If even one of them had any useful documents, the crazy nuts would’ve found them a long time ago.

Sam looks thoughtful for a few moments, and then says, “I was thinkin’ about Ash, you know. Earlier. Think he might find a cure?”

Dean shrugs. “Dunno, Sam. I met the guy for like, ten minutes. Coulda been full of shit for all I know.”

“But you sent him to Jo,” Sam reminds him. “You wouldn’t’ve done that if you hadn’t thought he was for real.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean concedes, “but a cure? I don’t know, Sam.” He knows what Sam’s getting at, but he’s not about to be the first to say it.

“Do you think we could help him?” Yep, there it is. Just as Dean’s predicted.

He suppresses a sigh. “Sammy…”

“I’m immune, Dean!” Sam argues. “I could help—”

“You don’t owe anything to anyone,” Dean says sharply.

“Dean, I survived the bite! I’ve got a _responsibility_ to try and help—”

“No, you don’t.”

“The longer we fight about this, the longer it’ll take for there to be a cure.” Sam sounds frustrated now. Dean can see it in his eyes, reflected in the firelight.

“And what if there’s no cure?” he retorts. “What if you hand yourself over, become a guinea pig, and it’s for _nothing_?”

“Won’t know until we try.”

“We’re _not_ going to try.”

“Not even Ash?” demands Sam. “I mean, it’s been a while, chances are he’s already on his way to Jo’s! We could go back, and—and help him—”

“Go back?” Dean lets out a snort. “To the same people who wanna rip us apart?”

“Jo’ll handle them,” Sam says confidently.

“Sam, let it go, man,” Dean says. He’s tired of this argument. He just wants to get some sleep, and the longer this goes on the more his brain bombards him with mental images of the corpses he and Jo had found, except now they’ve all got Sam’s face.

“Man, how can you be this selfish, Dean?” Sam bursts out. “I could be the only one who could help _end_ this, and you won’t even talk about it! Are you really gonna let the entire world go to hell just because—”

“Just because what?” Dean cuts in, voice low and flat. “Just because I give a damn about you? Because I _love_ you? Because I spent five years wondering what had become of you?”

“Dean,” Sam says, a little softer now, but he’s already cut too deep, and Dean is _really_ tired of this stupid discussion.

“Sam, I don’t care how mad it makes you, but I’m not gonna stop protecting you,” he tells Sam squarely. “Not now, not ever. Especially not now that I know what it’s like to lose you, okay? Be pissed at me, I don’t care. But I’m _not_ losing you again.”

“You don’t _have_ to!” Sam tells him. He extricates his hand from the sleeping bag and reaches out to put it on Dean’s arm. “Dean—”

“I don’t wanna talk about this, Sam.” This time Dean makes no effort to hide the exhaustion in his voice. “And you know what? You’re not wrong, man. When it comes to you, I _am_ selfish. But I’m not gonna apologize for that.” He turns on his back, closes his eyes, and puts his arm over his face, letting Sam’s hand fall away.

For a few moments there is complete silence, broken only by the distant sounds of crickets chirping. Dean resists the urge to open his eyes and see what’s up with Sam. He has no idea what Sam’s thinking, and suddenly he feels a deep, illogical fear that Sam is going to leave him. That Sammy, so obsessed with the idea of making things right, is going to tell him he’s giving himself up for research, that he’s untangling himself from Dean forever.

The thought brings a hard, painful lump to Dean’s throat. Before he can do anything about it, though, he feels hesitant fingers on his arm, and then hears rustling. A second later, Sam’s sleeping bag is right next to his, and Sam’s fingers are tangling in his shirt again. Despite everything, the gesture still makes Dean relax, makes his heart slow.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says quietly. It’s so rare to hear those words from his stubborn little brother that Dean opens his eyes, turning his head to look at him. Sam’s looking back with contrition in his eyes. “You’re not selfish,” he says.

“I am,” Dean replies softly, covering Sam’s hand with his own. “But that’s okay, Sam.”

“I am too,” Sam whispers. He’s lying on his side, hair fanned out around his head. “When it comes to you. But don’t you see, Dean? That’s _why_ I need to help. ‘Cause — what if you get hurt, Dean? What if you get bitten? I don’t know if you’re immune. I can’t take that chance.”

“I won’t get bitten,” Dean tells Sam. He chooses not to mention how many times he’s come close in the past five years, though.

Sam, it seems, understands that anyway. “You can’t promise that,” he says heavily. His fingers twitch a little under Dean’s. “You’re my big brother, Dean. I lost you too, you know. And — and I won’t let that happen again.”

It’s almost word for word the same thing that Dean said just minutes prior. He can’t argue with it, not when he knows that Sam is coming from the same place he’s coming from. “So where does that leave us?” he asks in the end. Both of them are so damn scared of losing each other, and Dean wants to laugh at the irony that it’s pulling them in different directions.

“I don’t know,” Sam says after a thoughtful pause. “And I… I don’t care,” he adds, and it sounds like it pains him to admit it. “I mean, I do care what happens to everyone else,” he says quickly. “But… if you don’t want… I mean. I’m wherever you are, Dean. No matter what.”

Dean’s first reaction is to relax completely, now that Sam’s said out loud that he won’t leave Dean. It was an irrational fear to begin with, but Dean couldn’t help it — and now Sam’s soothed it without even knowing.

Then Dean actually registers what Sam said.

“It’s not that I don’t wanna help,” he clarifies for Sam, turning on his side so he can look at him better. “Just…” _I’m more scared of losing you._

He can’t say it.

Sam understands anyway. He always does.

“I get it,” he replies, shifting closer. “I do, Dean. And well… like I said. I’m wherever you are.”

Dean smiles at him. “I know,” is all he says. “I know, Sammy.”

Sam returns the smile. A second later he yawns. “Right, I’m gonna — gonna sleep now,” he tells Dean, and pushes his face into Dean’s neck. His nose is cold where it presses against Dean’s skin, making him gasp.

“Little bitch,” he grumbles when he feels Sam smile.

“Jerk,” Sam says, muffled into Dean’s skin. He’s still smiling.

* * *

“Sit,” Sam tells the dog. It tilts its head and whines. “ _Sit_ ,” Sam repeats, more firmly this time.

The dog doesn’t move.

“Doin’ good,” Dean calls out from where he’s sitting and cleaning the guns.

Without looking away from the dog, Sam flips him off. “C’mon, boy,” he says. “Sit. Please?”

Dean snorts. “The dog ain’t gonna sit, kid. Just give it up.”

“No!” Sam sounds frustrated, but he continues smiling at the dog. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Offer him a treat or somethin’,” Dean suggests.

At that, Sam looks up. “Well, _sure_ ,” he says with a glare. “Let me just run down to the corner store real quick.”

“Smartass.”

It’s been three days, a state line, and nine walkers since their conversation about Sam wanting to help. They’re on an abandoned farm now, staying in the empty house for a couple days. Breakfast had been an hour ago — there are still chickens here, somehow, and Dean had scrambled a few eggs in a pan they found in the kitchen. He'd wanted chicken, but Sam looked appalled at just the suggestion, and in the end Dean had relented. Now they’re stretched out in the living-room — Dean on the couch with his guns spread out on the coffee table, and Sam on the floor with the puppy a few feet off.

The last time Dean had been in a living-room had been back in Lawrence, a lifetime ago. He remembers lazy evenings with his father and brother — John watching TV with a cold beer and Sam doing homework nearby. It had been one of the things he’d missed most when he’d left for college, the thing he looked forward to the most every time he was home for break.

Their last such evening stands out crystal-clear in his mind. Dean had come home for spring break, his third year in college. Sam had run up to him at the airport and hugged him tight, because Sam never gave a shit that being affectionate with your big brother was supposed to be uncool. “I got into Stanford!” he’d announced, and Dean had beamed at him, hugging him back hard enough to lift him off the ground.

_“Sammy, that’s great!”_

_“Yeah! I’ll be near you! And — Dean, it’s a full ride! Dad doesn’t have to pay a dime!”_

_“Ain’t that a relief,” John had laughed. “You gonna let go of him now, Sammy? Before you break his ribs?”_

_Sam let go, still grinning wide, and John had hugged Dean before taking his bag from him. “C’mon, let’s head home,” he’d said._

_Sam had chattered Dean’s ear off on the drive home, talking about the classes he wanted to take, and how pretty the campus was, and how he hoped his roommate would be nice, and “maybe you could come visit and we could hang out on weekends!” Dean had smiled. “Of course, I’ll visit, Sammy,” because how could he not? He missed Sam like hell whenever he was at college, and it would be great to have him within driving distance all year round._

_He’d caught John’s wistful smile in the mirror though, and made a mental note to talk to him later. A few more months and his dad was going to be all alone, both of his sons out of the nest, and Dean knew he’d be sad. He’d been lonely since Mary died — now, without Sam and Dean, it was going to be magnified by a thousand._

_He never got the chance._

_They announced a nation-wide emergency that night on the news. Dean had known that there was some kind of disease going around, but he hadn’t thought it was going to spread this quickly. Sam had been lying on his belly on the floor, doing his homework; he’d looked up at the news, and then at Dean, eyes wide. John had looked grim. “Be up early in the morning,” he told his boys. “We’re gonna have to stock up on groceries, non-perishables… maybe even guns.”_

_“Guns?” Sam’s eyes grew wider. He sat up and moved over to where Dean was sitting on the couch, and leaned against his legs, still sitting on the floor. “Why guns, Dad?”_

_“To stay safe,” John said._

_Sam had slept in Dean’s room that night._

_There had been soldiers at the store the next morning, dressed in fatigues and armed. For crowd control, they said, but John kept eyeing them warily, and he and Dean made sure to keep Sam between the two of them at all times. The store was so crowded they kept getting jostled, and it was a miracle they managed to get any items at all._

_Then in the parking lot, an old woman sneezed near John's face._

_He’d frozen on the spot, eyes flying to the approaching soldiers instead of his sons. Dean, who’d been a few yards ahead with the shopping cart, had stopped, Sam next to him. “Dad?”_

_“Dean.” John’s voice had been low, determined. “Take Sam. Go.”_

_“Wait, what? No!” Dean had responded, raising his voice. He’d taken two steps towards his father when a soldier had called out, “Stay where you are!”_

_“That’s our dad!” Sam had said, angry and fearful._

_One of the soldiers grabbed the old woman’s arm and yanked her away from John. He was wearing gloves and a face shield, Dean noted vaguely. Then he’d muttered something into his radio._

_“Dean, take Sam and go!” John had called once more. He was strangely calm — there was even a hint of a reassuring smile on his face._

_“Dad, no—”_

_“Do as I say.” John’s eyes looked sad though he was still smiling. “And Sam, Dean? I’m real proud of you boys.”_

_“Dad, what’s going on, why are you saying that—” Sam tried to go to his father, and was stopped again by the second soldier._

_The first one’s radio crackled. Dean couldn’t hear the message from all the way across the parking lot, but the grim expression on the second soldier’s uncovered face was unmistakable._

_The first soldier nodded to his partner, and then led the old woman away. Dean watched her go, and then turned to his father to find that the second soldier was now standing behind him._

_It hit him then, with a horrible clarity, what was going to happen._

_“Dad, NO!” he screamed._

_He’d only taken two steps when John raised his voice. “Dean, I said STAY!” he’d roared, so loud it had stopped Dean short. “Don’t you come a step closer, son.”_

_“Sir, please get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head, slowly,” the soldier was instructing._

_John did as he was told, and kept his eyes on his sons. “Take Sam and go,” he repeated._

_"We’re not leaving you!” Sam exclaimed, and tried to shove past Dean, but Dean grabbed him around the waist with both arms and pulled him back. “Dean— Dean, what are you **doing**?” Sam screamed. “Let me go!”_

_“Dean, GO!” John yelled one last time._

_“Dad!” Sam screamed, struggling to break out of Dean’s hold. “DAD!”_

_“Just - just stop, please, just a moment!” Dean called out to the soldier, pleading. “Please, it’s our dad, he’s all we’ve got—”_

_The soldier sighed, and for a moment it looked like he was going to listen. But then he prodded John with his gun, and said, “Stand up, sir. Follow me.”_

_“Where are you taking him?” Dean yelled as John stood._

_“Do NOT follow me!” John yelled back instead of answering. “That’s an order, Dean!”_

_“DAD, STOP!” Sam’s voice was shrill with fear and heavy with tears already. “DAD!”_

_A third soldier appeared, and the second one gestured to him and said something Dean couldn’t hear. He nodded, and then made his way over to Sam and Dean, planting himself in front of them with his gun in clear view. Over his shoulder, Dean could see the other one leading John away._

_“What are you doing, where are you taking him?” Dean demanded, letting go of Sam and trying to shove past the soldier so he could at least see—_

_“Stand down,” the soldier ordered, grabbing Sam’s arm. He was taller than both Sam and Dean, built like a brick shithouse, and there was no way that they could take him in a fight. That didn’t stop them from trying, Dean trying to get past him while Sam struggled, kicking and screaming._

_“It’s our dad, it’s our dad, please—” Sam was saying, squirming against the soldier’s hold._

_“He’s infected,” the soldier told them curtly. “He’s no longer your father.”_

_Sam struggled ever harder. “NO! That’s Dad, he was a Marine, he’s okay, I promise—”_

_Two gunshots rang out in quick succession._

_Dean’s heart stopped._

_Sam froze, but only for a second. Then it registered, and he began actively thrashing, kicking and punching. “LET ME GO, LET ME GO! DAD! DEAN TELL HIM TO LET ME GO—”_

_Dean’s heart started again, too fast, too loud. Unable to hear anything except his pulse thundering in his ears, and Sam’s screaming, Dean reached forward with numb hands and put his arms around Sam, pulling him into his chest, out of the soldier’s grip._

_“Sammy,” he said, his own voice sounding far away to him. “Sam.”_

_“DEAN, LET ME GO, I GOTTA GO TO DAD—” Sam’s voice hurt his ears, but Dean didn’t let go. He tightened his embrace, pinning Sam’s arms to his sides, and held him tight._

_“Sam.”_

_Something in his tone got through — Sam stopped struggling, and looked up at Dean, red-faced and wide-eyed. “Dean,” he tried one more time, pleading. “Dean, we gotta go to Dad—”_

_Dean put his hand to the back of Sam’s head, pulled until Sam’s face was pressed to his neck. His knees finally gave out, and both of them sank to the cold asphalt of the parking lot. “Sam,” he whispered again. It seemed like it was the only thing he remembered how to say. “Sammy.”_

_“No,” Sam whimpered, fingers clutching Dean’s jacket. “Dean, **no** —”_

_“I’m sorry,” the soldier said gruffly. He even sounded like he meant it. Dean would’ve told him to shut up, if his brain could have come up with the words._

_“Dad?” Sam said, like it was a question. Then again, sounding heartbreakingly young, “Dad?”_

_Dean buried his face into Sam’s hair, closing his eyes. “Sammy,” he whispered._

_Sam began crying, sobs wracking his skinny frame. “Dad,” he said, voice shaking, muffled into Dean’s neck, and then, “Dean,” and then again, “ **Dad** ,” and Dean felt tears running down his face and into Sam’s hair. Just yesterday they’d been fine. They’d been laughing, proud of Sam, talking about how great Stanford was going to be. They’d been together. Just half an hour ago they’d been together, debating what flavor of beef jerky to stock up on._

_It hadn’t felt like the end of the world, until suddenly, it actually was._

* * *

“Dean?”

Dean shakes his head as if he can get rid of the memory by doing that. Sam’s looking up at him from the floor, eyes wide. He seems to have forgotten about the puppy, who’s gnawing at the corner of a cushion.

“Yeah?” he says, and his voice comes out hoarse.

Sam gets off the floor and sits down next to Dean, close enough that their bodies are pressed together shoulder to knee. “You’re crying,” he says quietly.

“Oh.” Dean reaches up to touch his face. His hand comes away wet. “I hadn’t — I didn’t realize.” He wipes at his face, looking away from Sam.

“What was it?” Sam asks.

Dean clears his throat, trying to get rid of the lump in it. “Dad,” he says, just as quiet as Sam.

Instead of replying, Sam looks away too. Dean knows he’s thinking something, can almost hear his brain whirring, and wonders if Sam’s going to bring up John’s death. How senseless and sudden it had been. They hadn’t even known if he was infected for sure; they’d just decided not to take any chances.

“I miss him,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, voice heavy. “Me too.”

Sam’s body is warm next to his, a stark reminder of the life in him. Dean had come so close to losing him as well. _Too_ close. He’s already lost his father, and Bobby, and Ellen. He’s already lost Sam once. He doesn’t think he has the strength to sustain any more losses.

He lets the back of his hand knock against Sam’s. Sam nudges back. Dean doesn’t move his hand away.

Sam gets the message. He shifts, leans into Dean’s side, puts his head on Dean’s shoulder, and takes his hand. Dean grips back, squeezing, a wordless thank you.

They sit like that for a long time. Dean has no way of knowing how long exactly, just that the sun’s higher in the sky by the time his throat finally clears and he no longer feels like he’s going to fall apart. The puppy’s lost interest in the cushion and is now trying to chase its own tail.

“Thought of a name yet?” Dean asks Sam.

“No,” Sam answers. “You?”

“No.” He pauses. “Man, let’s just call him Dog and be done with it.”

“Dog? Come on, Dean. That’d be like naming your kid Human. Or Child.”

Dean grins. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone somewhere actually named their kid Child thinking it’s unique.”

Sam groans. “That’s just stupid.”

“Yep.”

“So,” Sam says after a few moments of silence. He sounds thoughtful. “We’re really going with Dog?”

“Yeah, why not? Better than Rover, right?” teases Dean.

“Better than Impala, too,” Sam fires back. “Dog it is, then. What do you think, Dog?”

Dog yips, and then goes back to chasing his tail. Sam lets out a little laugh, and the sound, clear and genuine, manages to dissolve the last of the cobwebs in Dean’s chest.

He’s still got Sam. He’s always going to have Sam.

* * *

They begin traveling vaguely northwards after that. Dean’s still got Canada on his mind. Maybe Alaska. It’ll be cold as all hell, yeah, but they grew up with Kansas winters. They’ll manage. Besides, walkers hate the cold.

Sam doesn’t bring up cures or immunity again. They don’t talk about it at all. That helps a little — Dean stops having nightmares about corpses with Sam’s face. But every time they come across a walker that they have to kill, Sam’s expression turns sour — more so than usual — and his demeanor changes. He’s withdrawn for hours on end, afterwards, and Dean knows without having to ask that his little brother is feeling guilt, like this is all somehow his fault.

God, it hurts sometimes, how achingly _good_ Sam is. Dean doesn’t think he could ever be like that, not when his one fundamental flaw is his selfishness when it comes to Sam. Sammy’s always been his Achilles heel, and that is never going to change no matter what.

They’re camping in Montana, about three days from the Canadian border, when Dean wakes up screaming John’s name one night. It startles Sam so much he almost drops his gun, and then he scrambles over to Dean from where he’d been keeping watch. “Dean!”

“I’m okay,” Dean gasps out, sitting up, willing his heart to slow down. “I’m okay, Sammy, just a nightmare, just a stupid _dream_ —”

But it wasn’t. It was a memory, and even now Dean can see his father’s face in his mind’s eye.

“About Dad?” Sam asks, kneeling next to Dean. Dog is barking, evidently unhappy about being woken up.

Dean nods. Sam reaches out for him immediately, putting his hand flat on Dean’s chest, and Dean takes a deep breath, and then another. Sam’s palm over his heart is an anchoring weight, real and solid, a reminder of where he is and the fact that he’s not alone, that he didn’t lose everything with John.

“I’m okay,” he assures Sam, who’s looking at him with worry all over his thin face. “Promise. I’m fine, kiddo.”

Sam nods, letting his hand fall. Nearby, Dog settles again, closing his eyes.

They sit in silence. Dean’s breathing easier now, heart slower, but he still can’t shake the mental image of John, kneeling in a grocery store parking lot. Smiling. He’d known what was coming even before Sam and Dean had. Must’ve figured it out the moment he got sneezed on and saw soldiers rushing towards him.

They hadn’t even tested him or waited for him to develop symptoms. Him and the old lady both. Just shot them dead in cold blood. That’s how scared they’d been of the disease, of how quickly it spread. Dean has no doubt in his mind that if Sam and him had been anywhere close, they’d have been executed too. They just got lucky when they decided to walk ahead of John.

How many more Johns were there, across the country? How many more parents, how many kids? How many families that got ripped apart?

How many Bobbys and Ellens?

Dean takes a deep breath. And then he makes a decision. It’s surprisingly easy, given how resistant he’s been to even the idea of it so far.

“Sammy,” he says.

“Yeah?” Sam replies at once.

“In the morning, we’re goin’ west,” Dean tells him.

“West?” Sam repeats, frowning.

Dean nods. “Yeah. To — to Washington. See if Ash’s there.”

Sam’s face goes slack with surprise. “What — _seriously_?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is quiet, determined. “If he’s there, we give him some of your blood. Not too much. And whatever else he might need. And then we leave, okay? We won’t stay.”

“And if he’s not there?” Sam questions.

“We move on,” Dean says. “Look — he’s the only chance there is, right now. I don’t even know if he can do it, but you wanna help, and I — I get that. So. We’ll help. As much as we can. But we don’t give up our lives, or our freedom, or each other. Got it?”

For a moment Sam just looks at him, still dumbstruck, and then he puts his gun aside and launches himself at Dean, throwing his arms around his neck and almost knocking him down. “Easy, tiger,” Dean laughs, one arm thrown out to prevent himself falling and the other going around Sam’s back.

“Thank you,” Sam whispers, voice wet, practically clambering into Dean’s lap. “Thank you, thank you, Dean, _God_ —”

Dean steadies himself before wrapping his other arm around Sam too. “Yeah,” he says, taking a deep breath. He just hopes he’s not going to regret this.

As if he’s read his mind, Sam says, “I promise you,” letting up a little and sitting back, legs stretched out on the ground next to Dean. “The moment anything goes sideways, we’ll get out of there, okay, Dean? I’ll do whatever you say. _Anything_.”

Dean nods, and smiles softly up at his little brother. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “We’ll leave in the morning, okay? It’ll take us a while to get there.”

“Okay,” Sam says, and gets off Dean’s lap. “Okay, Dean.”

Dean lies back down, and stares at Sam’s silhouette in the moonlight. “Wake me up for my watch,” he says.

“Will do,” Sam answers warmly.

Dean closes his eyes. A moment later he feels a light touch to his forehead, and then Sam’s lips are on his cheek, kissing it softly like he used to do as a child. Dean smiles without opening his eyes, and reaches out for Sam’s hand. Sam takes it, and Dean goes back to sleep with his brother’s warm body next to him, keeping watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment and let me know what you thought!! it honestly makes my day, and it makes me feel like all the hard work was worth it.
> 
> love,  
> remy


	10. In the Same Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Washington. The boys meet Charlie, and Dean sees Ash again. The grandmas make a cameo. Things come full circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is, the official last chapter!!! just the epilogue left, that should be up soon providing everything goes well <3 i've got an exam next week and i'm studying my ass off, to the point i literally think of nothing else lmao 
> 
> title is from _seers of light_ by jennifer delucy:  
> “no matter the deviation, all things come full circle. you begin and end your journey in the same place, but with a different set of eyes.”

It’s midday when they finally stumble upon the little cabin in the woods surrounding the camp. They’ve picked up some food and water from Olympia, managed to restock ammo too, and by now Dog has figured out what Sam means when he says “Sit.” Getting him to actually do it is more of a hit-or-miss, but Sam figures progress is progress.

“I’m thinkin’ we’ll wait here a bit,” Dean says as they spot the cabin. “Rest a while, and then you can wait here and I’ll go see what the situation’s like—”

“No,” interrupts Sam firmly. “Whatever we’re doing, Dean, we’re doing it together.”

To say they’ve got separation anxiety is, in Sam’s opinion, just a _little_ bit of an understatement.

“Fine, fine,” Dean allows, so quickly that Sam understands he didn’t really mean it in the first place. “Rest first, though.”

“Fuck, _definitely_ ,” Sam replies fervently. He’s half-afraid to look down and find two columns of jelly instead of his legs, that’s how wobbly they’re feeling after the hours and hours and hours of walking. Dog, too, looks exhausted, following after the two of them and occasionally throwing baleful glances their way.

Sam is stronger now. He’s building up muscle again, slowly but surely, and he doesn’t get tired as easily as he used to. He’s still slimmer than he’s ever been, but he no longer feels weak when he looks at himself.

He does need a haircut, though. His hair’s past his shoulders now, inching towards his midback, and he’s taken to tying it back in a bun that Dean loses no opportunity to mock. He fights back, of course he does, but secretly he hates the bun as much as his brother does. He’s thought about asking Dean to cut his hair for him, but somehow, he always forgets to do it when they’re free, and remembers again at the most impossible time.

Well, now that he’s thinking of it… “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you cut my hair for me before we go to camp?”

There’s a pause, and then Dean lets out a “Thank God” so intense it makes Sam look over in surprise. “You look like freakin’ _Tarzan_ ,” is what Dean says next.

“I know,” Sam says, mild. “You’ve been saying.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d listen!” Dean retorts. “Man, if I had a penny for every time I thought about cuttin’ it off in your sleep.”

“I’m surprised you actually didn’t,” Sam replies.

“Yeah well, I figured maybe you wanted it long,” Dean answers. “So fuckin’ glad that’s not the case— wait.”

He throws out his arm abruptly, catching Sam across the chest and halting him mid-step. His eyes are narrowed, fixed on the cabin, and Sam follows his gaze, trying to suss out what’s got his brother on edge suddenly. Then he hears hushed voices, and the creaking of old wood.

“Someone’s in there,” he whispers.

Dean nods, and flicks the safety off his gun. Sam does the same, instincts on red alert. Even Dog is quiet, eyes attentive and alert as he looks up at them. Dean puts a single finger to his lips in the universal gesture for _quiet_ , and then gestures towards the cabin. Sam nods to show he’s understood, and the two of them creep closer as silently as they can, careful not to step on a twig or make any sound that could give away their presence.

They stop short again when they’re nearer to the cabin. This close, the voices are distinct — and so is their tone, and Sam blushes fiercely when he realizes that it’s Jo in there, and she’s… busy.

“What the fuck,” mouths Dean.

“Maybe we should come back later?” Sam whispers.

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother, and then, in typical Dean fashion, storms the last few steps and throws open the door to the cabin with a loud, “Joanna Beth, what in the _hell_ —”

A second later, a gunshot rings out, and Sam runs towards him, unable to hold in his shout. “Dean!” Next to him, Dog barks, loud and frantic.

Dean swears, loud and creative, and Sam relaxes — Dean cursing like this means he’s fine. He joins his brother by the door to the cabin, and freezes when he sees what’s going on inside.

Jo is on the pallet, missing her pants and shirt (which she’s holding up against her chest to cover herself) — along with a redheaded girl in a similar state of undress. Both of them are glaring so hard at Dean that Sam is surprised his brother hasn’t spontaneously combusted by now. Jo is holding a gun with her free hand, and just above her is a hole in the ceiling that hadn’t been there before.

“I nearly shot you!” she snaps at Dean, putting her gun down so she can put her shirt back on.

“Who are you?” Dean asks the redhead while simultaneously flipping Jo off.

“Who are _you_?” she retorts.

There’s a pause as Dean glares at Jo and the redhead, and they glare back — and then Sam holds up his hand in an awkward wave. “Hi, Jo.”

She sighs, tension seeping out, and then gets to her feet. “Hi, Sam,” she answers, and comes forward to hug him. He hugs her back, grinning when she lets go. “You look better,” she tells him.

“Thanks.” She’s still pants-less, and Sam is doing his best to keep his eyes on her face.

Unlike Dean, who’s unashamedly staring.

“Hey asshole, quit staring!” snaps the redhead, who has by now put on her jeans and a flannel shirt.

“It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before,” says Jo with an eye-roll before hugging Dean. “Good to see you again, Winchester. And oh, is that a puppy?”

“You too, Joanna Beth,” Dean replies warmly, and then sniggers. “Though I’m seeing more of you than I thought I would.”

“Jo, meet Dog,” Sam cuts in before Dean can go on.

“Nice name,” snickers Jo.

“What do you mean nothing he hasn’t seen before?” demands the redhead, who seems to have heard nothing after that. “Were you two a thing? Is that what’s happening here? Is he here to, I don’t know, win you back or something?”

“No,” laughs Jo, and then points to a long, nasty-looking scar on her left shin. “He’s the one who fixed that up for me,” she tells the redhead. Then she turns back to Sam and Dean, still grinning. “Guys, this is Charlie. My, um, my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Dean repeats, eyebrow raised, and then grins. “Good for you.”

“Charlie, this is Sam and Dean, and I guess Dog too,” Jo tells her. “I told you about them.”

“Oh, the guy everyone hates ‘cause he saved his little brother instead of saving up!” Charlie nods enthusiastically. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Everyone?” Dean repeats.

“Everyone,” Charlie confirms with a grin. “Except the grandmas.”

“How’s Brenda doing?” Sam asks.

Jo grimaces. “Less we talk about that, the better.” She pulls her pants on, and then sits back down on the pallet, shifting so that there’s plenty of space for Sam and Dean to sit too. They both do so gladly, putting their guns down, and Sam lets out a little groan at how good it feels to be off his feet. Dog pads over and curls up between Sam’s feet, his little head resting on Sam’s boot.

Dean hands him the water canteen, and Sam takes a few grateful sips before handing it back to his brother. Then he leans backward until his back is touching the wall that the pallet is against. A second later, Dean joins him. “Man, I’m wiped,” he says, and Sam nods in agreement, giving some water to Dog as well.

“Why are you guys back here anyway?” Jo asks, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her eyes on them. “Thought you’d be gone for good.”

“Got a thing to do,” Dean answers vaguely. “You have any new people here, other than Charlie?”

Jo nods. “A few. One of ‘em said you sent him, actually.”

“I did,” Dean tells her.

“I’m sensing a story,” Charlie says, and sits back against the wall next to Sam.

“Buckle in, then,” Sam tells her with a wry smile. “It’s kind of a long one.”

“We got time,” Jo says.

* * *

“Wait,” says Charlie, and Sam tries to pay attention. It’s hard, though — it’s been more than an hour since he and Dean began recounting their adventures, but he’d let Dean take the lead. He’s tired, and even though it’s still light outside, all Sam wants to do is lie down and sleep.

“Yeah?” he says, suppressing a yawn. Dog’s already asleep, snoozing between Sam’s feet, his little tail wagging as he dreams.

“So you guys really think Ash can cure the virus?” Charlie demands. “Like, _cure_ it? Or maybe find a vaccine? Because no one’s done that. Ever. People have been trying since the first outbreak, and no one’s done it.”

“We don’t know if Ash can either,” Sam tells her. “But there’s a small chance, and that’s more than enough for us.”

“And why are you immune, anyhow?” Charlie goes on, as if Sam hasn’t spoken.

“I ate my veggies as a kid and didn’t complain,” Sam answers wryly.

“No, you didn’t,” Dean says at once. “You threw your broccoli at Dad when he tried to convince you to eat it.”

“Broccoli is gross, Dean,” Sam retorts, wrinkling his nose. “You don’t eat it. Dad didn’t eat it. Why was _I_ supposed to?”

“‘Cause vegetables are good for you, apparently,” Dean answers with a snort.

“Not _apparently_ ,” Jo corrects. “They _are_ good for you.”

“Not broccoli,” Sam says at the same time as Dean, and then grins.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Charlie says. “Why are you immune? If you’re immune, is Dean too? Is anyone else immune? Have you met anyone else who might be immune?”

Sam blinks at the onslaught of questions. “Um, I don’t know about Dean, or anyone else,” he says in the end. “No way to check other than to get someone bitten, and, uh, we didn’t do that. Obviously.”

“She always talk this much?” Dean mutters to Jo, who grins.

“Yeah, but it’s cute,” she answers. “She once woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me all about how redheads are resistant to anesthesia.”

“They are?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Sam tells him. “It was in my biology textbook.”

“Why do you remember that?” asks Dean, and Sam shrugs.

“Dunno.” He’s a bit surprised, too, considering it’s not knowledge he thought would ever come in handy. Then again, he thinks wryly, neither is calculus. He’s certainly never had to solve for x any time in the last few years.

“So, what do you do when you’re hurt?” Dean asks Charlie, appearing genuinely interested.

“I woman up and deal with it,” she answers with a confident smirk.

“She screams and makes me hold her hand,” Jo corrects with a fond eye-roll.

“I think we’re straying off-topic,” Sam says, and yawns again.

“Sleepy?” Dean asks.

Sam nods. “God, yeah. I miss coffee.” It was one of the first things that had vanished right after the collapse of society. Sam assumes it’s because people hoarded it and then drank the fuck out of it, and when they ran out no one knew how to get more. Not like they could just plant it.

Or maybe they could.

“Me too,” Dean answers, before Sam can completely form the thought he was about to have. “We can come back here and sleep later, okay?”

“Assuming we aren’t kicked out with bullets in our asses,” Sam points out.

“That’s a possibility,” Jo admits. “But… Ash has come in real helpful around camp. More than carries his weight, and he’s smart as hell. Did you know he managed to get a radio signal out? Yeah!” she says excitedly at the surprise on Sam and Dean’s faces. “Rigged up an old radio and a satellite dish and some other thingamajigs, and now we’re broadcasting our location if anyone else needs a safe place to go to.”

“It doesn’t attract walkers?” Dean asks.

“It does, but he’s also rigged up some weird GPS thingy that lets us know if anyone’s coming,” Jo says. “Charlie helps out, they’re both computer nerds so they get along well. Anyway, I think if people remember you sent Ash, they might be nicer.”

“And if they aren’t?” Sam asks apprehensively.

“Hide behind the grandmas,” Charlie answers cheerfully. “They love you. Well, they love Sam,” she amends. “They called Dean rude and uncouth and occasionally unwashed.”

“Unwashed?” Dean repeats in outrage. “What, am I supposed to have baths everyday while we run outta water?”

Charlie shrugs. “Dunno.” She leans closer to Dean and sniffs. “Well, you’re sweaty, but you don’t stink too bad.”

“We bathed in a stream yesterday,” Sam tells her.

“Forgive me for not caring about deodorant during the freaking zombie apocalypse,” Dean grumbles, clearly still offended.

“Dude, let it go,” Sam says, amused.

“You’re lucky they love you,” Dean tells him, “though I still think it’s ‘cause they only spent a couple hours with you. I’ll hand you to them for a day, see if they don’t try to stab you.”

“If you say so,” Sam says, and then forces himself to his feet. “Man, let’s do this before I actually fall asleep.”

He holds out a hand to Dean, who takes it and stands too. “Right, okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Jo stands, and then Charlie. “Let’s go,” Jo repeats. “And if anyone has a problem with you two… I’ll deal with it.”

* * *

It’s dusk by the time they arrive at camp. Sam is nervous, but he does his best to hide it. Dean, on the other hand, is visibly apprehensive, his brow furrowed and his grip tight on his gun. He looks like he’s expecting a fight, and Sam hasn’t missed how his brother is walking just slightly ahead of him and half in front of him, already shielding Sam with his own body. Jo and Charlie walk by them, and Dog follows at their heels.

“Relax, Dean,” Jo whispers, just before they step inside the gap in the fencing.

Dean does not relax.

The grandmas are the first to spot them, from their place under the giant tree. Margie’s got her hunting knife and a half-skinned rabbit in her hand, and five skinned ones by her feet. Liz is making arrows. Both of them freeze when they spot the little group.

Dean keeps walking, though, head high, so Sam follows. “Hey Margie,” he calls out, like everything’s normal. “Hi, Liz. How’s it goin’?”

In response, Margie throws her knife at Dean with surprising power and speed. Sam cries out, alarmed, but it seems his brother’s been expecting it — he moves deftly to the side, dragging Sam with him, and the knife whizzes past harmlessly and embeds itself into a tree trunk. Dog barks at it once, and then presses himself into Sam’s leg.

“You son of a bitch!” Liz calls out in her quavering voice.

“Thought you said they didn’t hate us,” Dean says to Charlie, who’s joined them by now.

She shrugs, way too nonchalantly considering the situation. “Guess I was wrong.”

“It’s all right!” Jo calls out, already in leader mode. “They’re with me!”

“Why?” comes a gruff, demanding voice, and Sam turns to see a man with a flat-top haircut and an AK-47 pointed at them.

“Hey, Hank,” Dean calls out, sounding pleasant. He’s still got his hand on Sam’s arm, though, and none-too-gently pushes him back so that he’s once more shielding Sam with his own body.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing back here?” This voice belongs to a woman, also holding a gun, dark eyes narrowed.

The noise is attracting people; more of them emerge from their dwellings, all of them armed with guns or knives (in some cases, both). No one looks happy to see them. Brenda, especially looking ready to slit Dean’s throat herself, notices Sam. Next to her, Jacob and Rob stand with anger plain on their faces.

“Where’s Ash?” Jo asks.

“Fuck if I know,” snarls Hank. “What’s this traitor doing back here?”

“Traitor?” Dean repeats, raising a brow. “For what, saving my brother’s life?”

“For buying his life with Kyle’s,” spits Brenda.

“Is that what you’re telling people happened?” Dean asks her.

“Not like you were around to tell us the truth,” the woman with Hank points out.

“Is anyone going to tell me where Ash is?” Jo calls out, now looking irritated. “And all of you, put your guns down.”

No one listens to her. Sam’s apprehension deepens. This is worse than any of them had anticipated.

“Lot of tension,” notes Charlie. “Why don’t we put the guns down and talk, huh?”

“Shut up, newbie,” snaps Hank’s friend. “I don’t wanna hear anything from anyone who’s with Dean here.”

“Aw, come on, Lola,” Dean says, spreading his hands out. “You say that like I didn’t save your life from — what was it? Four walkers? Five?”

Lola flushes dark, but has nothing to say to that. Sam notes she doesn’t lower her gun, though.

“Margie, tell them to step down,” Jo says sharply. “We need Ash.”

“What for?” demands Margie. “I’m not sayin’ a word till we’ve got some answers, girlie.”

“That’s between us and Ash,” Dean replies, voice taut. “Come on, Margie—”

“If you don’t answer in ten seconds, I’m going to shoot you,” warns Hank, and he looks entirely serious.

“Shut up, Hank, only reason you’re even here is ‘cause of me,” snaps Dean, looking impatient now. “You too, Brenda. In fact, that pretty much goes for all of you, doesn’t it?”

“Five seconds,” is Hank’s response. He appears unaffected.

“You fucking ungrateful bastards,” snarls Dean.

“Outta time,” says Hank, and raises his gun, flicking off the safety as he aims right at Dean’s chest.

“No!” yells Sam, shoving Dean aside and moving in front of him, almost kicking Dog as he does so. “Don’t — please!”

“Sammy, _move_ ,” growls Dean as he grabs Sam’s arm, impatience turning to anger. By their feet, Dog begins barking, loud and panicky.

“No!” Sam says again, and wrenches his arm out of Dean’s grasp. “Please don’t shoot! We just want to help!”

“How the hell could you help?” barks Margie.

“You’re the reason we’re out of the medicine we need!” Brenda adds, as if any of them need a reminder.

“Sam—” begins Jo.

“We can stop this,” Sam tells the assembled people. “That’s why we’re here! We just gotta talk to Ash—”

“How can you stop this?” demands Hank. His gun is still up, still pointing at Sam’s chest.

“Sam, no,” Dean says at once. “Sam, _no_ —”

“I’m immune,” Sam announces. “To the bite. See?” He lowers his hand towards his side.

“DON’T!” shouts Hank, and Sam remembers he’s got his knife strapped to his belt.

“Not going for my knife, I swear,” he calls out. “I’m just going to lift my shirt up, okay?”

There’s a tense pause, and then Hank nods.

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, resigned, but he’s still determined. He steps up so that he’s next to Sam now, and his hand rests on the butt of his gun, ready to fire if he needs to. Dog goes quiet, but he presses himself into Sam’s leg again, small and warm.

“It’s okay,” Sam tells him softly. “It’s okay, Dean.” He has to believe that, has to believe these people won’t shoot him. That there’s some good left in the world.

Dean shakes his head slightly and looks away. Looks like Sam has to do the believing for both of them, then. He’s okay with that, though. Dean’s got enough strength for the two of them, so it’s up to Sam to keep the faith for both of them.

He slowly lifts his shirt and angles his body so that the bitemark scar just above his head is visible in the dying light. For a moment there’s absolute silence, and then shocked murmurs break out throughout the camp. Lola looks disturbed, Brenda too. Margie and Liz appear surprised, and Liz actually reaches out to take Margie’s hand. Most of the people gathered lower their weapons, whispering to each other.

Hank’s gun stays up. “How do I know that’s real?” he demands.

“What, you think he’d let a human bite him for fun?” snaps Dean. “It’s real, Hank. And we need to see Ash. _Now_.”

There’s a _click_ just behind them, and Sam lets his shirt fall, turning to see Jo aiming her gun at Hank. “Put your gun down before I _make_ you,” she tells him, tone icy.

“This is so hot,” whispers Charlie.

“Babe, not the time,” Jo murmurs.

“I’ll schedule an appointment,” snarks Charlie.

“Hank,” Jo calls out. “Final warning.”

“Better do as she says,” Dean adds. Both him and Jo move so that Sam and Charlie are behind them.

A tense moment passes. Then Liz says, “Put that gun down before she blows a hole in you, boy. Now,” she adds, when Hank hesitates.

“Please,” Sam says. His voice carries clearly in the evening air.

With a shake of his head, Hank lowers his gun. “You better not be lying,” he warns.

“I swear I’m not,” Sam assures him. “Do you, um, do you know where Ash is?”

“Southwest border,” Hank grunts. He looks irritated, which Sam finds amusing but is not about to say so. “Fiddling with his machines and shit.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, and grabs Dean’s arm. “Let’s go, Dean. Dog? Come on, boy.”

Dean looks away from Hank, and shakes his arm out of Sam’s grip so that he can take his hand instead. His fingers tighten around Sam’s, protective and fierce, and then he looks back up at Hank and everyone else in the camp, expression stony. “Jo?” he says, almost through his teeth.

“I’ll handle things,” she answers at once. “Go.”

"Did he just say the dog is called... Dog?" Sam hears Margie whisper to Liz, and hides a grin as they begin walking.

Sam can feel everyone’s eyes on him as he follows Dean to the southwest border, letting himself be led by the hand, Dog right behind him. He hears whispers as they walk past, but no one says anything directly to them. Sam thinks that might have a lot to do with the thunderous, vaguely homicidal look on Dean’s face, and the fact that he’s still got his gun in his free hand.

“You’re lucky that went well,” Dean says the moment they’re out of earshot. “Hank coulda shot you, Sammy.”

“He was gonna shoot _you_ ,” Sam reminds him. “I wasn’t gonna let that happen, Dean.”

“Dumbass,” sighs Dean, but it’s fond, and he squeezes Sam’s fingers as he says it before letting his hand go.

There’s a large satellite dish at the southwest border, hooked up to several repurposed car parts and other bits and bobs. Next to it is a man in a literal mullet, wearing huge headphones and muttering to himself as he fiddles. “Is that him?” Sam asks Dean.

Dean nods, and then grins. “Yep.”

“I thought mullets died out in the 80s,” Sam comments.

“I wish,” Dean mutters, and then calls out, “Hey, Ash!”

Ash doesn’t turn. For all intents and purposes, he seems to have no idea that he’s no longer alone.

“ASH!” Dean yells. Nothing. “Fuck’s sake,” sighs Dean, and then walks right up to him with Sam, and taps him on the shoulder.

Ash drops the car radio he was messing with and yells as he whirls around, flailing wildly. Dean ducks to avoid being hit in the face, and rolls his eyes when Ash finally sees him. “Dude from the forest!” he exclaims, taking his headphones off. “What are you doing here, man?”

“Came to see you,” Dean tells him. “My name’s Dean, by the way.”

“Dean?” Ash frowns. “As in the guy everyone here hates ‘cause he saved his brother’s life?”

Dean sighs. “Yeah.”

“So that must make you Sam!” Ash holds out his fist. “The immune guy!”

Sam bumps it with his own fist, smiling. “That’s me. Dean told me about you. Thank you for helping him.”

Ash shrugs modestly. “Ah, it was nothing. Hey, is that a dog?” He squats, grinning as he pets Dog, who yips and licks his hand.

“His name’s Dog,” Sam tells him.

“Nice,” snorts Ash. “He’s real cute.” He stands again. “So… what can I do for you guys?”

“You any closer to a cure?” Dean asks.

“Not really,” Ash admits. “I mean, I’ve got equipment, and some blood from walkers, but… I can't find anything in their plasma. Nothing. I don't know where else to look, if I'm bein' honest.”

“That’s… kind of why we’re here,” Sam tells him. “Do you think my blood could help?”

Ash frowns thoughtfully, and then brightens. “Yeah, man, it could, you're immune so you've probably got antibodies I can isolate! Are you staying?”

“No,” Dean says firmly before Sam can speak. “He’s giving you some blood. _Some_. And then we’re leaving, okay, so be careful with it. You will _not_ be getting more.”

“Aw, come on,” protests Ash. “I have no idea how much I’ll need—”

“I don’t care,” Dean interrupts. He’s got that stony look in his eyes again. “Ash, I’m not risking my little brother. Not for _anything_. Only reason we’re even here is ‘cause he really wanted to help.”

“Dean, you know I’m not like _them_ ,” Ash begins.

“I don’t care,” says Dean. “I don’t _care_ , man, I’ve seen too much. Lost him too damn many times.” He puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezes. “Not gonna go through that again. We’re not staying.”

For a second it looks like Ash is about to argue, but then his shoulders slump a little, and he says, “All right. Can’t say I don’t get it, ‘cause I do. How long are you here for?”

“Just tonight,” Dean tells him. “We’re heading out first thing in the morning.”

“Right,” says Ash. “You guys mind waiting here while I go get the stuff?”

“Nah, go on,” Dean says.

“He seems nice,” Sam comments as they watch Ash leave. Then he yawns. Now that they’re no longer in danger and the adrenaline is wearing off, Sam can feel himself getting sleepy again.

“He’s cool,” says Dean. “Hey, you think they gave my hut to someone?”

Sam shrugs. “Dunno,” he says. “Maybe.”

“If they did, I’m taking over Jo’s place,” Dean declares, and then yawns. “Man, I’m tired too. So damn tired.”

“I need a thousand naps,” Sam agrees.

“I think that’s technically a coma,” Dean replies.

Sam laughs, but stops immediately when he sees Ash return with Brenda by his side. Next to him, Dean’s entire body tenses. “It’s okay,” Sam says quickly, though he’s a little anxious too. “She won’t do anything, Dean. She’s the only one with the training to—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean mutters, but he’s glaring.

“Let’s do this at my place,” Ash calls out, waving to them. They follow him to his hut, where he switches on a lantern and then extends his arms. “Welcome to _mi casa_.”

“Lovely place,” Dean says like he’s just walked into the White House.

“Why thank you,” replies Ash with a grin. “Sam, why don’t you sit down?”

Sam nods, shaking off Dean's protective hand on his back so he can sit on Ash’s bedspread. Dean immediately sits down next to him, glued to his side. Dog sits between the two of them, looking attentive and serious, and Sam laughs as he reaches out to scratch behind his ears. “Good boy,” he tells him fondly, and receives a happy yip in return.

Brenda has busied herself with getting alcohol wipes and a syringe out of the little bag she’s carrying, and Sam notices that Dean’s eyes haven’t left her for even a second. “No funny business,” he warns in a low growl when she finally turns to face them.

Brenda rolls her eyes. “Like what?”

“Anything at all,” Dean replies.

Ignoring him, Brenda looks at Ash. “How much do you want?” she asks.

Ash fishes out three small glass vials from a bag and hands them to her. “‘Bout this much,” he replies. “Stole ‘em,” he confides in Dean. “Heparin-coated.”

“Cool,” says Sam. He rolls up his sleeve and then extends his arm towards Brenda.

She pauses with the alcohol wipe halfway to Sam’s arm. “Hey, Ash?” she says. “See if you can get some food. He’ll need it after getting his blood drawn.”

“Sure thing,” says Ash. Dean looks like he wants to protest, but Ash is gone before he can say a word.

Brenda wipes the crook of Sam’s elbow and then ties a tourniquet around his upper arm. “Make your hand into a fist,” she instructs. “Let go when I tell you to.”

Sam nods and complies. Both he and Dean watch as Brenda palpates a vein and then gently, slowly, inserts the needle. “Let go,” she tells him as she unclips the tourniquet, and Sam watches, fascinated, as dark red blood begins filling up the body of the syringe.

“You can relax,” Brenda says without looking away from Sam’s arm. “I won’t hurt him.”

Dean remains tense. “Yeah, okay,” he says, not sounding convinced.

“Are you really immune?” Brenda then asks Sam. “It wasn’t just something you said to get Hank off you?”

“Yeah,” Sam tells her. “I am.”

“Why else would we ever come back here?” Dean adds. “I didn’t even _want_ to. I’m only here because of Sammy.”

“I’m sorry about Kyle,” Sam says softly. “I really am.”

“Easy for you to say,” Brenda retorts. “You’re alive, and he's not.”

“It’s not Sam’s fault,” Dean says sharply.

“Never said it is,” Brenda replies, looking up so she can glare at Dean.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “Sam wanted to give Kyle the rest of his course.”

“It wouldn’t have done him any good,” Brenda says, after a few moments.

“I know,” Dean says. “But,” he adds. “I’m sorry about Kyle too.”

There is a pause as Brenda processes this. During this time, she withdraws the needle, and then empties the contents of the large syringe into the three vials. Then, when she’s done, she says, “Thank you, Dean.” Her voice is steady.

Ash chooses that moment to return. “Here,” he says, handing Sam a crude shawarma made of flatbread and what looks like roasted deer.

“Thanks,” Sam says, accepting it. He feels _exhausted_ now, the blood loss exacerbating his fatigue, and sleep looks more and more appealing with each passing second. Still, he knows Dean will stuff the shawarma down his throat if he has to, and Sam doesn’t want it to come to that. So he tears a bit of it off, offers it to Dog, and then takes a small bite himself.

“We all good here?” Ash asks.

Brenda stands, and hands over the vials. “Yeah,” she says shortly. “See you around, Ash.”

And with that, she’s gone, not sparing a single glance for the brothers. Dean watches her go, and then turns to Sam. “You okay?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You guys can crash here if you want,” Ash offers. “I’ve got stuff to do with the radios, so I’ll be out most of the night.”

“Thanks, Ash,” Dean tells him. “We’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

“Come say bye before you go,” Ash replies, and grins. “See you later, Dean.”

“Bye, Ash,” Sam says in between bites. Ash gives him a little salute and then follows Brenda out of the hut.

“So that’s it?” Sam murmurs a few moments later, holding out half his shawarma to Dean. “We’re done?”

“Looks like it,” Dean says. “And I’m not taking that, man, you need it more than I do.”

“I can’t finish it, dude, I’m too sleepy,” Sam protests, pushing it into his brother’s hands. “Besides, I know you’re hungry too.”

“I can wait a while,” Dean says.

“You don’t _have_ to,” Sam tells him. “Just take it, Dean.”

“You sure, Sammy?”

“ _Yes_ , Dean.”

“All right, then.” Dean finishes it off in three bites, giving away how hungry he’d really been, and Sam watches with satisfaction as Dean chews. “Pretty good,” he comments once he’s done.

“Yeah, looks like Dog liked it too,” Sam says, bending over to untie his laces. “Man, I’m gonna get some sleep.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Dean says, taking his own shoes off.

“What about you?” Sam asks. “Gonna keep watch?”

“Nah,” Dean says after a moment of consideration. “I trust Jo.”

“Good,” says Sam, and lies down. He shifts closer to the wall, making space for Dean, and watches him expectantly. “Come on, man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says fondly, and lies down next to Sam. Immediately Sam is curling into his side, head on his chest and hand in his shirt. “Clingy little shit.”

“Whatever,” is Sam’s retort, punctuated by a yawn. A second later, he feels Dog climb up his legs and then settle again, curled on top of the two of them. “What are we gonna do now?” Sam asks, lazily petting Dog’s head.

“Dunno,” Dean replies after a few seconds, petting Dog too. “Anything we want, I guess.”

“Where are we gonna go?” Sam wonders.

“What about Canada?” Dean suggests. “You’d fit in with all the moose.”

“Ha ha,” Sam answers sarcastically. “Seriously, Dean.”

“I _am_ serious,” Dean tells him, wrapping an arm around Sam’s back and folding the other under his own head. “Canada’s not too bad.”

“Okay,” Sam says, closing his eyes. “Canada sounds good. Can we go to Niagara Falls?”

Dean chuckles, his chest vibrating with it. “Sure, Sammy.”

“Cool,” mutters Sam sleepily. “Always wanted to see Niagara Falls. ‘S pretty cool.”

“Of, course you’d think it’s cool, you little nerd,” Dean says affectionately. “Quit talking now, man. Get some sleep. I swear I won’t hesitate to knock you out.”

“Jerk,” mumbles Sam.

“Bitch. Go to sleep, seriously, kid.”

“Yeah yeah. ‘Night.”

“Goodnight, Sammy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment and let me know what you think so far!!!
> 
> love,  
> remy x


	11. A New Ending (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean, one year later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are, right at the end!!! i can't thank you enough for all your lovely comments, you guys have been so encouraging and motivational and it literally means the world to me. i can't express how infinitely glad i am that you've all enjoyed this story, sam and dean's relationship, and even the side characters. i couldn't have asked for better readers <3
> 
> title is from a quote by chico xavier:  
> “though nobody can go back and make a new beginning... anyone can start over and make a new ending.”

Sam adds a log to the fireplace, prodding it with the poker till the fire blazes up again. Then he returns to his place, sitting on the rug with his back against Dean’s legs.

“Thanks,” Dean says, from where he’s sitting in his chair. “It was gettin’ a bit chilly.”

“No problem,” Sam replies.

They’ve just had dinner, a chicken that Dean roasted in an old oven that he somehow got to work. Now they’re relaxing, Dean in his favorite chair, and Sam leaning against his legs, both of them occupied with watching Dog chew on his favorite toy. The little fella’s grown — he’s almost an adult now, much bigger than he used to be, and so much more energetic for it. Dean won’t ever say it out loud, but he’s one of the best things that’s happened to the two of them.

The other being this house. Dean has no idea what happened to the people who lived in it, and for his own sake he tries not to think about it too much. It’s in a pretty little town named Watson Lake, which had been deserted when they’d stumbled upon it. They haven’t encountered many walkers since crossing the border over into Canada, and Dean thinks it’s because of the cold. Sam’s theory is that all the people from smaller towns like Watson Lake probably moved to bigger cities, thinking of safety in numbers. Considering they haven’t found many corpses here, Dean’s inclined to agree.

It’s a nice house. Small, quaint. They’ve got a backyard and a fireplace. Small living-room, cute little kitchen. A little effort, and Dean managed to make it functional, too. There are two bedrooms upstairs, one for each of them. Just like their home in Lawrence. And just like how it was in Lawrence, more often than not, they sleep in the same room anyway, still curled up together even though it’s been more than a year since they’ve left Washington. The nightmares are fewer and farther between, but Sam still goes to sleep with his hand in Dean’s shirt, and Dean still has trouble remaining calm if he goes for longer than an hour without Sam in his sight.

He looks down. Sam is reading, some dead boring book about agriculture, but he’s gobbling it all up like it’s freakin’ _Harry Potter_. “Dude, what even are you gonna do with all that info?” Dean asks.

“I’m gonna try to grow coffee plants,” Sam tells him, not looking up from his book.

“Where?” Dean asks with a snort.

“In the backyard,” Sam replies. “Obviously.”

“Well, it better work out,” Dean says. “I’m not kidding when I say I’d sell my soul for coffee right now.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sam murmurs.

Dean grins, reaches out to muss Sam’s hair, and then goes back to the radio in his lap. He’s got it tuned to the frequency that Ash broadcasts on, and usually keeps it running on low volume in the background as they go about their day. “Someday,” he says, putting it on the little table next to his chair, “we’re gonna hear that Ash found a cure, or a vaccine or somethin'.”

“You sound confident,” Sam says, turning his head to look up at Dean.

“I am,” Dean replies. He doesn’t know how he knows; he just does. “And then we’ll literally have saved the world. How cool is that, man?” He grins down at his brother.

Sam grins back. “Pretty cool,” he replies. Then he shifts, until he’s leaning sideways into Dean’s legs, and rests his head on Dean’s knee as he continues reading his book.

Sometimes, on clear nights, they go out and watch the stars like they used to do back home. Here, though, they get to see the Northern Lights too. The first time they’d seen those, it had literally left them breathless, both of them gripping each other’s sleeves tight and staring at the sky in speechless awe. Dean still feels a bit of that wonder every time he sees them. He doesn’t think that’s going to fade, not for a long time.

They found empty photo frames in a drawer in the kitchen when they first moved into the place. Now one of those frames has the picture of the two of them that Dean had saved in his wallet. It’s propped up in the center of the mantel above the fireplace, crease marks still visible. Dean wishes they had pictures of their dad and of Bobby, but none of those survived over the years.

Sam yawns and puts his book down, but doesn’t move. He glances towards Dog, who’s fallen asleep with his toy between his paws, and then settles, head growing heavier against Dean’s knee. Dean gets it — they’ve had a filling dinner, and the fire is warm, and they’re finally safe after years of running. He’s glad they’ve got a home again, a place where Sam feels comfortable enough to doze off in random locations. His little brother has made a habit out of it — Dean once found him fast asleep in the backyard, Dog’s tennis ball still in his hand.

He reaches out and runs his hand through Sam’s hair a few times. Sam’s eyes are closed, the firelight making shadows dance across his face, and he looks calm, peaceful. Dean can’t help but smile at the sight. Sam’s breathing is deep and even; he seems half-asleep already.

In some time, Dean is going to have to nudge Sam awake and force him upstairs to bed. Then he’ll go back to his own room, lie awake for a while, and then return to Sam’s room. They’re going to go to sleep without guns under the pillow and the threat of walkers outside. Dean still keeps his gun and knife nearby at all times; Sam does too. They’re ready, but it’s nice to know that they don’t always have to be.

For now, though, Sam sleeps, and Dean melts into his soft chair, half-listening to the radio, and Dog chases rabbits in his sleep. The fireplace blazes on. It’s snowing outside.

They’re safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, please leave some feedback below <3 you can always come talk to me on tumblr @[thelegendofwinchester](https://chesterbennington.co.vu)!
> 
> love,  
> remy x


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